Page 138 of Primal

She sets her vibrator back on the charging dock. “I swear to God, if you’re the reason my shit keeps moving—”

Her phone buzzes. She groans before stomping out, muttering about ‘demon clients.’

The second her footsteps fade, I slip into motion.

Out of the closet. Across the room. Toward the window.

It’s a tight squeeze—not exactly made for grown men who should know better than to stalk their neighbors. I muscle it open without making a sound. Mostly.

The screen pops loose. I catch it before it hits the ground.

My glasses don’t get the memo. They slide right off my nose, bounce off the windowsill, and land lens-down in a damp patch of mulch.

Payton’s voice drifts from the hallway. “No, Liz, neon pink is not a ‘neutral tone.’”

I drop onto the grass, scoop up my glasses, and wipe them on my shirt. One lens is now definitely smeared with something that smells like expired salad.

Contacts next time. Or just … restraint.

***

The window in my room upstairs has a nice view of her house—modest, one-story, painted that shade of yellow that somehow still glows at dusk. Her place looks cozier. Less haunted.

Her lights come on at 7:03 pm.

The feed glows on my screen—live, in high-definition, hers.

By 7:06, she’s in that ‘Property of Ghostface’ hoodie. Those goddamn sleep shorts. Hair damp, legs bare, peanut butter jar in one hand.

I watch from the desk. Monitor one: kitchen. Monitor two: living room. Three and four rotate, slow pan. Enough coverage to build a case. Or a religion.

She flops onto the couch and opens her laptop.

I lean in. Not like I don’t already know her passwords. Hell, I set up half her router security.

Browser tab: Instagram. She scrolls through her feed—thumb lazy, peanut butter slow. Max’s latest post flashes by:

Caption: Operation Snack Heist: Mission Success.

He’s mid-run, hoodie flying, chip bag in hand like he just looted a 7-Eleven. Classic Max.

She smiles, taps his profile.

The one I set up for him to keep him occupied and out of my hair. Firewalled, private, comment filters so tight it’d choke a troll. I scrub it daily. He thinks it’s magic.

Payton’s still scrolling, licking peanut butter off the spoon.

She pauses on a photo with the caption: Best day ever! We made it rain.

Nerf gun. Backyard hose. Max grinning like chaos incarnate. I’m in the background—soaked shirt, glasses sliding off my nose, caught mid-fix on the sprinkler.

She zooms in.

My pulse skips. A blip. Nothing fatal. Not yet.

Her phone pings. Same notification pops up on my screen.

BRETT TANNER