Chapter 1 – Emelia
I peered through the peephole as my neighbor shoved his key into the lock of his apartment door. The cool metal ring pressed a circle into the skin around my eye, and the world narrowed to that tiny fish-eye view of him—the only view I ever really let myself have. The hallway outside was dim and still, the kind of quiet that made every little sound seem amplified. Somewhere down the corridor, the ancient building heater hummed and rattled, pushing out warmth that never quite reached the floor.
His broad back filled the frame, a moving wall of muscle wrapped in a t-shirt that clung to him in all the places that made my imagination misbehave. He wore it like it was nothing, just cotton and thread, even though the weather still carried a winter chill that seeped through the thin walls and under the door. The air in my apartment was cool against my bare arms, and I shivered, but not from the temperature.
Tattoos snaked from his sleeves, black ink in stark lines covering all the way to his wrists. In the peephole’s distorted view, they looked almost alive, twisting shadows over his tan skin, curling when he flexed his forearms to turn the key. I could never make out the full designs from this distance and angle, just slices of wings, geometric shapes, curves that hinted at something dangerous and beautiful.
He turned the lock, the click loud in the quiet hallway, sharp and final. The tiny sound shot straight through the metal door and into my chest. I realized I’d been holding my breath, lungs tight, shoulders tense, and I let out a shaky exhale that fogged the peephole for a second. My gaze blurred, then cleared.
He froze.
Every inch of him went suddenly still, like a predator catching a scent. The small muscles in his shoulders tightened. The key is still in the lock. The air on my side of the door felt heavier, as if something invisible had shifted between us, even though he didn’t know there was an “us” at all.
Then he turned his head, looking right at me over his shoulder.
My heartbeat slammed against my ribs so hard it actually hurt. I already knew his eyes were a deep green. I’d memorized them from the times we’d passed in the hallway, from every stolen glance I’d managed to catch out of the corner of my eye, from his photos online, where he never smiled fully but always looked like he knew something you didn’t. I’d spied on him before, more times than I’d like to admit—both through this peephole and through my phone screen. But those moments had always felt…safe. Distant. Like watching a movie.
This felt like standing on the edge of something real, something sharp.
My skin tingled as he eyed the peephole. The tiny circle of glass suddenly felt too thin, too clear. I didn’t dare move. If I did, he might know I was there. It was ridiculous—I knew it was ridiculous—but fear and thrill tangled together in my gut until I couldn’t tell which was which.
My palms began to sweat where they rested against the door as the moment lasted, his gaze watchful. I could hear my own breathing, shallow and ragged, and the faint hum of the hallway lights. The scent of lemon cleaner rose from the wooden floor on my side, mixing with the faint, comforting smell of coffee that still lingered from that morning. The world shrank to the circle of his eyes and the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears.
Finally, he smirked the slightest bit, his full lips quirking before he turned and pushed through his door. That tiny curve of his mouth hit me like a physical touch—taunting, knowing, secret. He slammed it behind him, the heavy sound reverberating through the walls and straight into my bones.
I backed away and rubbed my hands down my pajama pants, trying to wipe away the sweat and the tremble in my fingers. The fabric was soft and worn, cotton brushing over my palms in a familiar, grounding sensation. My knees felt like they’d forgotten how to be knees. I sucked in a breath, then another.
Holy shit.
Did he know I was there?
The question echoed in my head, threading through every crack in my composure. Had he heard my breath? Seen the faint ghost of motion in the peephole? Or was that smirk just a coincidence, his usual half-amused expression I’d seen a hundred times when he walked past someone with his camera slung over his shoulder?
I’d watched him for months, ever since he’d moved in right at Thanksgiving. I still remember that day: me carrying a cheap pumpkin pie up the stairs, him hauling boxes marked with black Sharpie, his jaw clenched, hair falling into his eyes. There’d been a cold wind knifing in through the lobby door every time it opened, and he’d walked through it like it was nothing, like the chill couldn’t touch him.
But I was always careful, never meeting his eye on the few occasions when we’d passed in the hall or the lobby. I’d perfected the art of pretending I didn’t know exactly what his footsteps sounded like, that they didn’t make my stomach flip every time they approached. I was far too shy to ever really look at him, much less speak to him.
I turned and took the few steps to my couch before sinking, the cushions sighing under my weight, and dragged my laptop over from the coffee table. The plastic was cool under my fingertips as I flipped it open. The glow from the screen bathed the room in pale blue, making my small living room feel even smaller, like the world had narrowed down to this rectangle of light and the ache in my chest.
I went to his Instagram, fingers moving on autopilot, wondering if he’d posted anything new in the past hour. Nothing. The same feed of moody cityscapes, occasional sarcastic comments, and comments on other photographers’ work stared back at me.
There were two new photos—both models he’d no doubt been shooting for the morning. They were perfect, lying on a bed in their bras and panties while staring lustfully at the camera. The sheets around them looked impossibly soft, a messy sea of white and gray that framed their smooth skin. Their hair was artfully arranged, their lips parted, their eyes heavy-lidded and sure. Lucas had captured them like they were impossible to look away from.
My throat tightened. Looking down at my curvy frame, completely devoid of ink or anything extraordinary, I realized for the millionth time that I didn’t have a chance with Lucas. Not in the real world, anyway. Not outside my imagination, where I could script conversations and endings and kisses without ever risking the humiliation of reality.
He was chiseled and lean, with dark hair and deep green eyes. His pierced eyebrow and motorcycle only added to his mystique. I’d heard the rumble of that bike through the open lobby door, smelled the faint gasoline and leather on the nights he came back late. He was intensely gorgeous, untouchable. More than that, he was an artist with a big-time reputation for his ability to take amazing photos. I’d googled him more than once—okay, a lot of times—and seen his name attached to magazines, campaigns, a world so far from mine it might as well have been another planet.
Not to mention, he had a dark past. That part was more rumor than fact, scraps of overheard conversation from neighbors in the laundry room, vague references in old interviews when he’d said things like “back when I was still figuring my shit out” and “I didn’t always live here.” Words that hinted at shadows.
My past was boring and would likely put a man like Lucas Taylor to sleep. No dramatic childhood, no wild rebellion, just a quiet girl who read too much, took too many notes in class, and lived in her head more than the real world. The most scandalous thing I’d ever done was maybe this—standing at my door, watching my neighbor like some modern Jane Eyre, peeking at the brooding man in the attic. Except I was the one in the attic.
The lusty models stared back at me from the screen, but really, they were staring at Lucas, at his amazing body and intelligent eyes. They were the kind of women who could lean in and say his name into the darkness and have him answer without hesitation. I was the kind of woman who lurked behind her door and replayed three-second moments like they were epic scenes.
I flipped the laptop closed and leaned back, the couch fabric rough against the back of my arms. I glared at the ceiling, as if it had personally created Lucas and then dropped him directly across the hall from me like some cosmic joke. The overhead light hummed softly. Outside, somewhere, a siren wailed and faded.
“Get over it,” I muttered to myself. I’d been trying to shake my obsession with my neighbor for months. It hadn’t worked yet.
I checked my phone. The bright time display blinked up at me, unforgiving.
Shit.
I was going to be late for class.
Adrenaline shifted gears inside me, away from Lucas and toward the very real threat of being called out by my professor. I darted up from the couch and went to my bedroom, the floor cool and slightly gritty under my bare feet. A pile of laundry threatened to spill from the basket in the corner, and the faint scent of dryer sheets clung to the air.
I threw on a black t-shirt, my go-to armor, tugged on a pair of jeans that hugged my hips, and grabbed some tall boots. The zipper’s rasp sounded loud in the small room as I pulled them up. After brushing my teeth and hair in quick, practiced motions, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror—flushed cheeks, wide brown eyes, hair a little wild from my fingers. My heart was still beating too fast, a leftover echo of green eyes and a taunting smirk.
“Stop thinking about him,” I whispered to myself. My reflection didn’t look convinced.
I grabbed my jacket and bag, the worn strap familiar against my palm. The weight of my textbooks tugged at my shoulder, but I barely felt it. My mind was already halfway down the hall, imagining bumping into him, imagining not bumping into him, and not sure which was worse.
I barreled out my door, the old hinges protesting with a squeak. The hallway air was cooler than my apartment, tinged with the smell of dust and someone’s leftover dinner. I slammed my door closed behind me, the sound echoing down the corridor, and turned to lock it, fingers fumbling the deadbolt in my rush.
“Hi.”
The word dropped into the space behind me like a stone thrown into still water.
I looked up slowly, the hair on the back of my neck standing at attention. The tiny hallway seemed to narrow, the beige walls closing in an inch, two inches. My breath caught in my throat.
He was behind me.
Lucas was in the hall.
Behind me.
Talking to me.
Oh my god.
The cool metal of my key bit into my fingers. I stared at my door, frozen to the spot. How long had he been standing there? Seconds, minutes, hours? I had no idea. Time felt like it had slipped sideways, every moment stretching out too long and collapsing in on itself at the same time.
I forced myself to breathe, pulling air into lungs that didn’t seem to know how to work anymore. The scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, with something darker underneath—floated to me, wrapping around my senses. My hand hovered near the lock. My heart tried to claw its way out of my chest.
And for the first time since he’d moved in, I wasn’t behind the peephole. I was exposed, caught in the open, with nowhere to hide.
