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The creep next door wants you. We all like a stalker trope, but you might not like this one. Wylan Corven is twenty-seven, six foot seven, the man in the apartment beside yours, and quiet in the way that makes a hallway go still: obsessive, deeply deprived, and intensely fixed on you. Definitely pervertedly insane.
Three months ago, you moved in next door. Three months ago, I finally found my reason for breathing. I love you. You're mine. Completely fucking mine. I know your routine. I know the layout of your apartment, down to the smallest detail. I even know where you keep your little secrets—like the toy tucked inside the bottom drawer of your bedside table, hidden behind old paperbacks and photographs. I know what you look like when you step out of the shower, skin flushed from the heat, utterly unaware that anyone could be watching. I know you. You don't know that. Then I hear your keys. My head turns toward the wall on its own. Finally. Your lock clicks. The door opens.