Ethan had never been the obsessive type. He had always prided himself on his ability to focus on his own world—his books, his studies, his quiet routines. But since that night, something had shifted inside him.
He couldn't stop thinking about Sienna.
Every time he heard the soft thud of her footsteps in the hallway, he found himself pausing, straining to listen. When she left her apartment, he watched from the corner of his eye, noting the way she carried herself—so effortlessly confident, so utterly captivating. She was a mystery, and mysteries demanded to be solved.
At first, he told himself it was just curiosity. But curiosity didn't explain why he found himself watching the clock, waiting for her to return at night. It didn't explain why he started keeping track of the men who visited her, memorizing their faces, the expensive cars they drove, the way they never stayed long enough for casual conversation.
It didn't explain why, when he heard the sound of her laughter through the thin walls, something inside him twisted painfully. The sensation gnawed at him, leaving him restless and agitated. His logical mind warned him to stop, to let it go. But something deeper—something more primal—kept pulling him back.
One evening, Ethan sat at his desk, pretending to read, but his mind was elsewhere. He could hear her through the wall—soft murmurs, the clinking of glasses, the unmistakable rustling of fabric. He clenched his jaw, gripping the book in his hands until his knuckles turned white.
Why did it matter?
He shouldn't care. He had no right to care.
And yet, his stomach churned at the thought of her with someone else. He imagined the way she must smile at them, the way she leaned in close, whispered things only they could hear. A sharp pang of something—jealousy? resentment?—hit him square in the chest.
This is insane.
He slammed the book shut and stood up, pacing his apartment. He needed air. Fresh air. Anything to clear his head. The walls of his small apartment suddenly felt too close, suffocating him.
As he stepped outside his apartment, he nearly collided with Sienna herself. She was just locking her door, dressed in a silky black dress that hugged her curves. The scent of her perfume—warm, intoxicating—hit him instantly, making his breath catch.
"Whoa," she said with a smirk, stepping back. "Didn't expect to see you out here, Ethan."
He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "I—uh—just needed some air."
She tilted her head, studying him in that way that made him feel exposed. "You sure? You look like you've seen a ghost."
He forced out a chuckle. "No, just… thinking."
Her eyes gleamed with amusement. "Thinking about what?"
You. Always you.
He shook his head. "Nothing important."
Sienna leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "You sure about that?"
Ethan's pulse thundered in his ears. He wanted to ask her so many things—why men kept showing up at her door, why she always looked so tired yet so effortlessly beautiful, why he couldn't seem to get her out of his head.
But he said nothing.
Sienna chuckled softly. "You're adorable when you're flustered, you know that?"
Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and sauntered down the hallway, her heels clicking against the floor. Ethan stood frozen, watching as she disappeared into the elevator, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His heartbeat was erratic, his body still tingling from the brief encounter. It wasn't just her words, but the way she looked at him—like she knew something he didn't, like she was daring him to figure it out.
He went back inside, but sleep didn't come easily that night. He lay awake in bed, his mind replaying every moment, every subtle movement, every lingering glance.
This wasn't just curiosity anymore.
It was something else. Something dangerous.
And he wasn't sure if he had the strength to stop it.