Calvin

Calvin checked the bag for the third time.

Not because anything had changed since the second.

Gloves. Flashlight. Spare contact case. Phone charger. Bottled water. A clean shirt folded at the bottom in case he worked up a sweat and needed to change before driving home. A small pry bar he had bought two weeks ago and still had not decided whether bringing it made him practical or insane.

He stared at that one for a few seconds before zipping the bag shut.

Practical. Obviously.

The townhouse sat half a block ahead, mostly dark except for the weak amber glow spilling through one downstairs window. He knew which lamp that was. He knew you left it on when you went upstairs because you hated coming down into a completely dark first floor. He knew the bedroom light had gone out twenty-eight minutes ago.

Calvin rubbed both palms slowly over his thighs.

He had worn contacts tonight. Dark hoodie. Plain clothes. Nothing memorable. The license plates on his car were clean, the interior lights disabled, his phone set to silent with location services off because he was not a fucking idiot.

This was preparation. That was all. People prepared for things that mattered.

His pulse refused to cooperate with the explanation.

Calvin looked at the house again and felt the same sick, hot pressure he had been carrying for weeks settle lower in his stomach.

Three months.

Three months of watching. Three months of telling himself he was waiting until he understood the situation better. Three months of finding reasons not to cross the last line.

He had run out of reasons.

Calvin leaned forward, adjusted the rearview mirror, and looked at himself.

Blond hair flattened where his hood had rested against it. No glasses. Eyes too wide. Jaw tight enough to ache.

“Get your shit together,” he muttered.

The man in the mirror looked unconvinced.

Calvin reached into the passenger seat and picked up the bag anyway.

The cold November air outside Calvin's car needled at the feverish skin of his face as he crossed quickly to the other side of the street. He tried to look inconspicuous but frankly, there were no logical explanations for someone to be entering this neighborhood at this time of night. He knew that well.

Calvin rounded the corner at the end of the row of houses, toward the backyards all tightly compacted together. A large-sounding dog hit the fence directly next to him, and he nearly screamed.

A scowl settled over his face. Embarrassing.

He shifted the strap of his bag further up on his shoulder and walked a little faster, pointedly not thinking about the possible liability of a dog going that wild at this time of night.

There was no hesitation when Calvin reached the entrance to your backyard. He easily reached over the top and undid the latch, pushing his way in. He didn't let the door swing back, he carefully pressed it shut, ensuring the latch locked fully in place without a sound.

The grass in this yard was overgrown, coming up to his knees, and he had considered taking care of it for you during a weekend you weren't at home. Those were rare. You usually didn't leave home for more than a few hours at a time unless it was for work, which... both of you had to attend to. Unfortunately. He had ultimately decided it wasn't worth the trouble. Your meager lawn furniture was still in the exact place you had arranged it when he first came here three months ago, grass growing up through the seat slats. He was disappointed to see that the plants you had just bought from the farmer's market last Tuesday were already dead.

Calvin stopped finally when his eyes traveled to the window he planned to use. It was already open. The screen had long since fallen out and was lying uselessly against the outer wall. He clenched his fists. Deviations to his plans, even when beneficial to him, were entirely unwelcome. They threw off his process almost completely.

He sighed hard through his nose, changing weight between his feet.

Then he moved.

It wasn't difficult to lift himself up and in through the window--he'd done it enough times now that it was like muscle memory. He briefly felt stupid for having brought the pry bar but shook the thought off. There was no such thing as being 'too prepared.'

The house was so silent that his heartbeat was echoing off the kitchen walls. Or maybe that was in his head.

Either way, he was here now. In your house. While you were still asleep upstairs.

A thrill of excitement coursed through Calvin's body. He had never been here at the same time as you, he couldn't justify it to himself. He would never risk explicit rejection by asking you directly if he could come over. You never offered an invitation yourself. So he had made do.

He started to make his way through the kitchen, fingertips trailing over the kitchen island as he went. He was pleased that the counter was smooth and free of grime. You always kept your home immaculate. He liked that a lot.

His gaze fell on the gift he'd recently given you. It was prominently displayed on your bookshelf, where anyone could see it at any time. Like you were proud to have it. A possessive warmth swelled in his chest. Calvin had not been here since he gifted it to you so he didn't know you had displayed it. Seeing the gift there felt like what he imagined it would feel like to see his name branded into your skin.

That possessive warmth that started to swell in his chest spread through his stomach and down his thighs, and he felt himself twitch in his jeans.

His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it. It took considerably more effort to contain himself as he took your stairs two at a time. He was still trying his best to be silent, but the pressure that had been building in him for weeks was becoming suffocating.

Your door was cracked, the light from the nightlight spilling out in a thin stream. Calvin swallowed hard, taking one last pause before incrementally pushing your bedroom door open.

You stirred, and he immediately froze. He waited several long seconds, holding his breath, eyes squeezed shut. When nothing happened, his eyes opened again, first one then the other. You were still asleep. Good.

He crept farther into the room, careful to avoid the creaky spots in your floorboards that could probably wake the dead. He made it all the way to the edge of your bed, your body turned toward him and the rest of the room.

Admittedly, he hadn't really thought about what he would do when he reached this point. Seeing you below him, sleeping peacefully and utterly unaware of his presence, stirred something animal in him. He wanted to feel you, touch your skin, feel your hair between his fingers, hear you call his name.

He dreamed about the moment you finally looked at him and understood what he already knew. That he was supposed to be here. That all of this had been leading somewhere.

Calvin's hands drifted to the front of his jeans without ever taking his eyes off you. The button came undone. The sound of the zipper cut through the deafening rush of his blood in his ears.