Charlotte's bedroom was steeped in the scent of dried roses and melted candle wax, the air thick with unspoken longing. Moonlight spilled through the half-open curtains, painting pale ribbons of silver on the walls—right where her cherished collection hung. A monogrammed handkerchief. Solitary black button. A photograph taken in secret.
Each piece had its own memory.
The handkerchief had drifted from Arthur's coat pocket outside the café during one of their almost-encounters, fluttering down like a fragile white signal. Charlotte had retrieved it with careful fingers, holding it close as if it carried his heartbeat. It still clung to the scent of bergamot and cedar—his scent.
The gold button had required more patience. It had torn loose one stormy night when Arthur brushed against a wrought iron fence. Charlotte, protected under her umbrella, had followed him closely, eyes locked on the gleaming object as it skittered across the wet sidewalk. When it rolled to a stop right at her feet, it felt like destiny.
And then there was the photograph—black-and-white, sharp, and intimate. She had taken it from across the street with a long lens, capturing Arthur as he stood in the glow of his studio window, unaware. That image wasn't just a likeness. It was the moment she truly saw him—not just in shape and form, but in essence. The stoop of his shoulders, the still curve of his mouth, the elegance of his loneliness.
And now, the newest addition: a sketch.
She pinned it with careful precision beside the others, her fingers grazing the rough strokes of charcoal that outlined her image. The way Arthur had captured her—the gentle line of her throat, the lift of her chin—made her breath catch. He sees me, she thought, pressing her hand flat against the paper. Really sees me.
She stepped back to take in the wall—a quiet shrine to something deeper than infatuation. These were not spoils of conquest. They were proof of a shared thread. Evidence that they were already connected. It wasn't madness—it was devotion.
Behind her on the bed, his navy scarf waited. It still carried his scent, woven into the wool like a secret. Tomorrow, she'll wear it. Let it graze her skin like a whisper only she could hear. Sitting beside it now, she closed her eyes, breathing him in, imagining the lines of his face, his hands sliding around her waist, his breath soft against her neck.
She murmured his name into the quiet.
--
Arthur's Apartment — 3:17 AM
The laptop screencast an eerie blue glow across Arthur's features as he leaned in, eyes fixed on the live feed from Charlotte's flower shop. Hidden inside a decorative fern pot, the camera gave him a perfect angle—her back turned, her hands arranging crimson roses with slow, deliberate care.
He leaned closer.
Every movement was languid. Sensual.
Then she paused.
Tilted her head.
And slowly turned.
Arthur held his breath.
She reached for a pair of shears, her fingers coiling around the handle like a dancer gripping a prop.
His jaw clenched. There was something unnerving in the way she moved. Poised. Too graceful. Almost like she knew she was being watched.
He blinked hard and rubbed his eyes. Maybe he was just tired. Paranoid.
But when he looked again, she was gone.
The shop was empty. Roses half-arranged. As though she had simply disappeared in the middle of a thought.
His pulse quickened. He clicked through to the exterior feed—nothing. Just the deserted sidewalk, a flickering lamp post, shadows settling like spilled ink.
Then—
A soft chime.
Motion detected: Front Door.
Arthur froze, blood turning cold. The only sound was the low hum of the laptop fan.
He hesitated.
Clicked.
The playback revealed only a blur. A shadow darting past the camera. Too fast to recognize, too real to ignore.
He leaned back slowly, heart hammering. He stood, double-checking every lock, every window, even the vent covers.
Everything was exactly as he'd left it.
Which somehow made it worse.
The Next Morning — Café
Charlotte blew gently across the top of her coffee, steam spiraling upward as she watched Arthur over the rim. He looked weary—dark crescents under his eyes—but his gaze remained sharp. Alert.
"You're quiet this morning," she said softly, setting her cup down with a delicate clink. Her fingers traced the rim, nails painted a shade that matched the red in the roses she sold.
Arthur's fork paused midway to his mouth. "Didn't sleep."
She tilted her head slightly, allowing his scarf—wound casually around her shoulders—to slip down just enough to draw attention. The wool kissed her skin. She resisted the urge to close her eyes.
"Bad dreams?" she asked, voice low and velvet-smooth.
Arthur's eyes dipped toward the scarf. His brow creased. "Something like that."
Charlotte smiled faintly and reached across the table, brushing her fingers lightly against his wrist. His skin was cool. He flinched—barely.
"Tell me," she coaxed.
The bustle of the café faded into a dull hum, like the world was stepping aside for their conversation.
"I think someone's been in my apartment," he said, voice barely audible.
Charlotte's heart thudded, but her face stayed perfectly composed. "That's awful. Did you report it?"
Arthur shook his head, fingertips skating the edge of his cup. "Nothing was stolen. But... things were off. Moved."
Her grip tightened around her napkin, fingernails digging into the cloth. Not things, she thought. Me. I was there.
Arthur's eyes met hers suddenly. "Do you ever feel like you're being watched?"
She held his gaze. "All the time," she murmured.
He gave a smile, but it lacked warmth.
She leaned in, just enough for her voice to become a secret. "Do you think it's someone you know?"
Arthur didn't respond right away. His eyes shifted again to the scarf.
Charlotte gave a soft, breathless laugh and adjusted it, fingers brushing the fabric. "You're looking at me like you think I did it."
"Did you?"
Not a tease. A genuine question.
She didn't flinch. Her pulse was racing.
"If I had," she whispered, "would you want to know?"
Arthur didn't reply. But something shifted in his gaze. Not fear.
Intrigue.
--
Charlotte's Bedroom
The note was brief—just one line, no name, a single red rose drawn beneath it:
You look beautiful when you sleep.
She had dropped it in Arthur's mailbox before dawn, gloved fingers leaving no trace. The city had still been tucked in sleep, the streets hushed under the early chill. A fox darted past her, quiet and watchful. She smiled.
The silence was dense. Reverent.
His building loomed ahead like a dark guardian. She moved silently, her breath fogging the air. When she reached the mailbox, anticipation tightened her chest.
As she slid the note inside, a sound—a soft rustle—snapped her upright.
She turned, heart thudding.
Nothing. Just wind sifting through the hedges.
Still, she ran the whole way home, the thrill pounding through her veins.
Now, curled beneath the covers, she imagined his reaction. The way he would hold the paper, trying to make sense of it. Trying to see her in the invisible space between the lines.
She held his scarf close, its scent still warm on her pillow.
Would he recognize the rose?
Would he feel her presence?
Would he tremble, as she had?
She closed her eyes.
"Dream of me," she whispered into the dark.
In her dreams, he pulled her close and whispered her name.
--
Arthur's Apartment — Midnight
The note trembled between Arthur's fingers under the dim desk lamp. Plain paper. A smudged line of ink, like the writer's hand had shaken—or perhaps laughed.
You look beautiful when you sleep.
He read it once. Then again. And again.
He'd reviewed the footage. Checked the locks. Examined every vent.
No signs of entry.
And yet—
A faint scent lingered in the room. Roses.
He hadn't bought flowers in days. The last bouquet had long since been tossed.
His hand curled into a fist, crumpling the note.
Who had written this? A past flame? A stranger? The handwriting was rounded, feminine, with a flourish in the 'y'—deliberate, almost flirtatious.
A memory stirred from deep inside—blurred by time. A childhood night. His window was left open. A pressed flower and a note on his desk in the morning. He thought it was a prank. But he remembered the fear. The way his skin prickled. The feeling of being invaded.
"Who's watching me?" he whispered.
His eyes scanned the room, sharp and restless.
Outside, the streetlamp flickered.
Inside, he was no longer truly alone.
A stalker being stalked.
And a small part of him?
Was thrilled.