4. Caught In His Sight

CHAPTER 4

Caught In His Sight

WREN

The World War II lecture drones on, but my attention is locked on Ileana. Since our encounter in the cafeteria, since I watched her dance, I’ve been piecing together what I know about her—things I’d noticed without realizing. Alone, each detail is meaningless. Together, they paint a picture I can’t look away from.

The way she takes notes, how she shifts slightly when someone walks past, the tilt of her head, always angled down.

“Mr. Carlisle?” The teacher’s voice cuts through my focus. “The significance of D-Day?”

“June 6, 1944. The Allied Invasion of Normandy that turned the tide of World War II.” I don’t look away from Ileana. War strategies are simple. Predictable. I don’t need to pay attention when my mind is preoccupied with something far more compelling.

“You’re staring,” Monty whispers from beside me.

“Am I?” I don’t bother denying it. Every shift, every movement, reveals glimpses of what she hides beneath her careful facade. Something that doesn’t match her attempts to fade into the background.

“Since when do you care about her?”

“Since she proved interesting.” The words come out quieter than intended, more to myself than him.

When the bell rings, she’s out of her seat before anyone else, and disappears through the door. My lips curve up as I gather my things.

“Coming?” Nico asks as we leave class. “We were thinking about going to the diner for food, and then down to the lake.”

“Not today.” My eyes follow Ileana’s progress down the hall. There’s something about the way she moves … like a dancer choreographing every step to avoid notice. “I want to figure something out.”

They exchange looks, but don’t question me. They’re used to my obsessions. The way I fixate until I’ve unraveled everything. It never lasts—but this feels different. She feels different. Nothing keeps my attention for long. But right now, something about Ileana has caught my eye in a way that I can’t explain. That moment in the cafeteria, the way her face changed when I called her ‘Ballerina’ . It’s stuck in my head.

I follow at a distance when she leaves school, staying far enough back that she won’t notice me. But it’s obvious she’s uneasy. She keeps glancing over her shoulder, her pace alternating between quick strides and measured steps. I wonder if she’s fighting the urge to run.

Every time she looks back, I duck into doorways or behind parked cars. It’s oddly satisfying, watching her try to shake off the feeling of being watched. Like my attention is a physical thing she can feel, even without seeing me.

Today’s plan didn’t include following her, watching her from the shadows. I’ve never done this before. Followed someone. I’ve never felt the urge. But it feels right. Natural .

The sun is setting by the time she reaches her street. She pauses at the corner, scanning her surroundings, and I press against a building, amused at how her uncertainty makes her usual grace falter.

She fumbles with her keys at the building’s entrance, her movements jerky and frantic, before taking one last look around and ducking inside. I count to thirty before moving closer, finding a spot where I can watch the windows. A light flicks on in a room, illuminating her silhouette through the thin curtain.

Perfect. First floor.

There’s a faint blur of movement before the light flickers off. She must have moved into one of the other rooms. I stay put .

Watching.

Waiting.

Rules. Boundaries. They’re meaningless. There’s nothing stopping me from standing here, from watching her. From letting this thrill build.

I don’t know how long I stay there. Half an hour? An hour? It doesn’t matter. I have the patience of a predator, and eventually I’m rewarded when the light comes on again.

I move closer, positioning myself where I can see better. The curtain twitches, then opens, and she peers out.

What are you thinking about, Ballerina?

She steps back, the curtains fluttering, leaving a small gap. I catch another glimpse of her. Even now, when she thinks she’s alone, there’s something captivating in the way she moves. But there’s tension there, too. Her shoulders are tight, her gestures abrupt.

A man’s voice carries through the thin glass, probably her father. She responds, but the words are too muffled to make out. A door closes, and she returns to the window, pressing her forehead against the glass.

I’ve been careful to stay hidden, but I ignore the voice that cautions me to keep still, and shift slightly, letting the streetlight catch my movement. The risk of being seen, of her realizing it’s me, sends a shot of adrenaline through my veins.

Her head snaps up, eyes widening. She knows something’s there. Maybe not me specifically, but she senses a presence—the feeling of being watched.

I step back into the shadows, but I’ve achieved what I wanted. She stumbles away from the window, the curtains snapping shut. But I can still see her moving behind them. Still track her restless pacing. And it sends a rush of adrenaline through me.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Monty: Are you home?

I don’t respond, my attention focused on the girl in the room .

Will she step outside and investigate? Or will she stay indoors, where it’s safe?

I linger for a few minutes longer. I don’t want to leave, but I should. It’s as though there’s an invisible thread tying me to this spot. To her . And it takes me a little while to break free from it.

Hands deep in my pockets, I turn my back on her window and walk down the street, whistling beneath my breath. To any outsider it will look like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Just another guy heading home from school.

But something has happened. Something has changed. And I’m not sure I want to change it back.

A new game has begun.

The girl who moves through life like the world doesn’t know she exists has finally come into my orbit. I’m not sure what it’ll take to get her out of my head.

Or if I even want to.

My thoughts are full of her as I walk back to school to pick up my car. The way she dances, how different she seems. How she paused at the window, that tiny moment of hesitation. And the thrill of it hums in my veins the entire drive home.

My house lies on the farthest edge of town, a sprawling estate that feels too big, too empty. There are no lights on, no signs of life, when I approach. I don’t remember a time when I was ever greeted by voices, or lights, by anything other than darkness.

The front door clicks shut behind me, echoing through the wide, empty hallway, and I move through the house, turning on a few lights out of habit. The high ceilings and polished floors only makes the house feel emptier, colder, and every step I make echoes back at me. It’s a place built for grandeur, for people, for parties , but it might as well be a tomb most nights, for all the time anyone spends here.

I make my way up to the second floor where my room is, a large space with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook nothing but the long stretch of grass and trees. The moon casts a pale glow through the glass, and I don’t bother turning on the light. I like the way the moonlight transforms my room.

I have an armchair near the window, and I sit down, my thoughts still tangled with Ileana.

There’s something about her. Something that makes me want to peel back those layers and see what she’s hiding.

Something … Something … Something.

That word is on constant repetition, but there’s nothing else I can use to explain what happened today.

I’m not sure why that excites me. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen her in a way I don’t think anyone else has. I’ve watched her when she thought no one was looking.

I can’t remember the last time someone caught my attention like this. I’m already thinking about tomorrow. About the next time I’ll see her. The next time I can force her to acknowledge me.

The rush I felt tonight … the satisfaction I got from following her. I’ve never felt anything like it before.

I lean back on my chair, a smile pulling my lips up as I make plans.

I can’t wait to see what tomorrow will bring.