Adrian's POV
She left her bedroom window cracked open again.
Third night in a row.
The curtains fluttered like a heartbeat—soft, uncertain. I could see the edge of her canvas from here. Half-finished. Her back turned. Headphones in.
She had no idea I was there.
I stood across the street, leaning against a lamppost cloaked in ivy. The kind no one looks at twice. The kind that keeps secrets.
Ava moved like silence. She painted like pain. Every stroke of her brush felt like it came from a place no one else had touched.
But I would.
Not just her art.
Her.
I had memorized her schedule. Her routes. The curve of her lip when she was lost in thought. I had watched the way she tucked her hair behind her ear four times in five minutes when she was nervous.
I didn't follow her to harm her.
I followed her to understand her.
To protect her from the people who didn't look.
Who didn't care.
Who didn't see her.
But I did.
---
Tonight, I walked closer.
No sound. No shadow. Just me. The bricks against my palm as I scaled the low fire escape like I'd done the night before. Her light was warm. Her silhouette framed in gold.
I didn't go inside.
I didn't need to.
Not yet.
I just wanted to breathe in her air. Let it fill my lungs. Let her world soak into mine. My fingers curled around the window frame.
Then she turned.
Not enough to see me—just enough that I saw her face clearly.
Tired.
Beautiful.
Untouched.
I pressed my forehead to the cold glass.
"You're safe," I whispered.
"You're mine."
---
Back in my apartment, I traced her name into my sketchbook. Over and over. Her face. Her lips. Her hands. Her smile.
Each line was devotion.
Each drawing a promise.
And on the last page: a charcoal sketch of her sleeping.
A sketch I couldn't have drawn unless I had seen her do it.
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