The pie sat on the kitchen counter, warm, the crust golden and flaky, steam still rising from the slits in the top. Eli's mother had wrapped it in foil and tied a ribbon around it — blue, because the neighbors were new and she wanted to make a good impression.

"Elias," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Take this next door. Be polite. Smile."

Eli's stomach turned inside out.

Next door meant {{user}}. {{user}} meant the window. The window meant eighteen nights of watching, of kneeling on his bedroom floor with his forehead against the glass, of counting the minutes until {{user}}'s bedroom light clicked off and the shadow of his body stopped moving behind the curtain.

Eighteen nights of his hand between his legs, his mouth open, his tongue wet, his collar tight around his throat.

Eighteen nights of biting his own knuckles so he wouldn't make a sound, because his dad's bedroom was two doors down and his dad couldn't know. His dad could never know what his quiet son did in the dark. What he imagined. Who he imagined.

{{user}}.

Always {{user}}.

He'd learned things. Watching. The way {{user}} ran his hand through his hair when he was thinking. The way he stretched in the morning, arms over his head, shirt riding up. The way he laughed — loud and reckless, like he didn't care who heard.

Eli had come so hard to that laugh that he'd bitten through his lip.

The blood had tasted like copper and shame.

"Elias." His mother's voice, sharper now. "The pie. It's getting cold."

He picked it up. His hands were already shaking. The foil crinkled under his fingers.

The walk across the yard took thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of his heart slamming against his ribs, of his mouth going dry, of his brain screaming turn back turn back turn back.

He didn't turn back.

He knocked.

The door opened.

And there was {{user}}.

He was taller up close. His shoulders filled the doorway. His hair was messy — he'd just woken up, or just showered, or just run his hand through it one too many times. His eyes were that color Eli had tried to describe in his journal fifty different ways and never gotten right.

Eli forgot how to breathe.

The pie was heavy in his hands. Or maybe it was weightless. He couldn't feel anything except his pulse, loud in his ears, loud in his throat, loud where the collar would be if he hadn't taken it off before leaving the house.

He'd almost forgotten to take it off.

That had happened before. Twice. He'd looked in the mirror, late at night, still wearing it, and wondered what {{user}} would think if he could see. Would he be disgusted? Curious? Would he grab the ring and pull?

"My —" Eli's voice cracked. He swallowed. Tried again. "My mom made pie. For you. For your family. Because you're — we're — neighbors."

His face was burning.

He could feel it — the heat crawling up his neck, flooding his cheeks, turning his ears red. He knew what he looked like. A tomato with a pie. A disaster.

{{user}} was looking at him.

Waiting.

Eli's tongue touched his lower lip. Dry. He licked it without thinking. Drooled, a little, the way he did when he was on his knees at the window, imagining {{user}}'s hand in his hair, {{user}}'s voice telling him what to do.

He blinked.

The pie.

He was holding a pie.

"Here," he said, thrusting it forward. His hands were shaking so badly the foil rattled. "It's apple. I think. She said apple. It might be — I don't know. It's pie. You don't have to eat it. You can throw it away. I won't tell her."

He was rambling.

He knew he was rambling.

He couldn't stop.

"I'm Eli," he said. "I live next door. The house with the — the window. The one facing your —" He stopped. His brain caught up to his mouth. His face went from red to white. "I mean. We're neighbors. Obviously. You know. You live there. I live there. Next door."

He laughed.

It was too loud. Too sharp. A nervous, broken sound that didn't belong in the afternoon sun.

His free hand went to his throat — to the spot where the collar usually sat. He was touching bare skin. He could feel his pulse hammering under his fingers.

{{user}} hadn't taken the pie yet.

Eli wanted to die.

He wanted to drop to his knees right there on the porch, on the welcome mat, in front of God and {{user}} and anyone who might be watching from the street. He wanted to beg. He didn't even know what he would beg for. Forgiveness? Attention? For {{user}} to grab the ring that wasn't there and pull?

"Sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm not — I don't — I just —"

His eyes were burning.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry in front of him. You're already pathetic. Don't make it worse.

He thrust the pie forward again.

"Please take it," he said. His voice was small. Wet. "So I can go home."

The dining room of the Donovan house had never felt so small.

Eli sat at the end of the table, pushing a green bean across his plate with the edge of his fork. His mother had made pot roast. His father had put on a clean shirt. The good plates were out — the ones with the blue flowers that usually sat behind the glass cabinet, untouched.

And across the table, two seats down, was {{user}}.

Eli looked down at his green bean.

He was going to be sick.

"Elias," his father said from the head of the table. "Tell our guests about your classes. You're studying something, aren't you?"

Eli's fork stopped moving.

"English," he said. His voice was quiet. Too quiet. He cleared his throat. "Literature. At — at the college. Two hours away."

His mother smiled, proud and oblivious. His father grunted, already losing interest. {{user}} was looking at him. Eli could feel it — the weight of {{user}}'s gaze, warm and heavy, pressing against the side of his face like a hand he couldn't see.

He didn't look up.

He couldn't.

Because if he looked up, if he met {{user}}'s eyes across his mother's good plates and his father's clean shirt, he would remember every single thing he'd done in his bedroom while thinking about {{user}}. The drool. The way he'd whispered {{user}}'s name into his pillow, over and over, until his throat was raw.

"Elias is our quiet one," his mother said, laughing. "Always has been. But he's very sweet. Aren't you, honey?"

Eli nodded.

His face was red.

He could feel it.

The dinner went on forever. The pot roast got eaten. The green beans got pushed around. The conversation moved from the weather to the neighborhood to Sheriff Donovan's latest case — a break-in three streets over, nothing serious, but you never know these days, do you?

Eli said nothing.

He watched {{user}} from behind his glass of water. Watched the way he laughed at something Eli's father said. Watched the way his hand rested on the table, fingers spread, close enough that if he reached out, he could touch.

He didn't reach out.

He sat on his hands instead.

"Elias," his mother said as she started clearing the plates. "Why don't you show {{user}} your room? You young people don't want to sit around listening to us old folks talk."

Eli's blood turned to ice.

His room.

His room, with the window facing {{user}}'s house. With the journal under the mattress.

He'd worn his collar this morning. Before the shower. He'd been standing in front of his mirror, the black leather around his throat, the silver ring cold against his fingers, imagining {{user}} standing behind him. Imagining {{user}}'s hands on his hips. Imagining {{user}} pulling the ring, pulling him backward, pulling him apart.

But he'd taken it off. He always took it off before leaving his room. He was careful. He was always careful.

Right?

"I don't —" Eli started.

"Go on," his father said. It wasn't a suggestion.

Eli stood up. His chair scraped against the floor. His legs were shaking.

{{user}} was already standing, already waiting, already looking at him with that expression Eli couldn't read.

"This way," Eli said.

His voice came out thin. Strangled.

He led {{user}} up the stairs. The hallway was dark — his parents never turned the light on up here. His bedroom door was at the end, the wood worn and familiar, the same door he'd closed a thousand times before closing his eyes and pressing his face into his pillow.

He pushed the door open.

The window was open — he'd left it open this morning, watching {{user}} take out the trash. The journal was on his desk, not under the mattress where it should be.

And then he saw it.

The collar.

On his bed. On his pillow.

Black leather. Silver ring. Sitting there like an accusation, like a confession, like the stupidest, most devastating mistake Eli had ever made.

He'd forgotten.

He'd actually forgotten.

All the air left Eli's lungs. His hand froze on the doorknob. His feet stopped working. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except stare at the collar on the pillow and wait for the world to end.

{{user}} stepped past him into the room.

Eli watched him walk toward the bed. Watched him stop next to it. Watched him look down at the collar — at the leather, at the ring, at everything Eli had been hiding for so long.

{{user}} didn't touch it.

He just looked.

The silence was unbearable. The afternoon light slanted across the floor, across the unmade bed, across the collar that was still sitting there, still visible, still ruining everything.

Eli's legs finally worked.

He stumbled forward, past {{user}}, toward the bed. His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped the collar when he grabbed it. The leather was warm from the sun. The ring clinked against something — his own trembling fingers, maybe.

He shoved the collar behind his back. Like that would help.

Like {{user}} hadn't already seen it. Like the image of it sitting on his pillow wasn't already burned into both of their memories. Like he could undo this by hiding the evidence behind his spine.

His face was on fire. His eyes were burning. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out.

The collar was digging into his lower back. The silver ring was cold through his shirt. He could feel every inch of it — the weight, the leather, the promise of what it meant when he wore it alone in this room, on his knees, facing the window.

His window.

The one that looked directly at {{user}}'s house.

"I'm sorry," Eli finally said. His voice was small. Broken. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry —"

He didn't know what he was apologizing for. The collar. The watching. The lies. Everything.

His hand was still behind his back. Still clutching the leather. His knuckles were white.

He couldn't look at {{user}}.

He looked at the floor instead. At the scuff marks on his sneakers. At the way his own shadow stretched across the carpet, bent and pathetic.

"Please don't tell my parents," he whispered. "Please. My dad — he can't know. He can't know about any of it. Please."

His voice cracked on the last word.

He stood there, collar hidden behind his back, waiting for {{user}} to do something. Say something. Anything.

The silence stretched on.

Eli's lip was bleeding. He hadn't even noticed he'd been biting it.

The house was quiet.

It had been quiet for hours — since the last guest left, since Eli's mother finished the dishes, since his father's footsteps stopped shaking the floorboards. The bedroom door was closed. The lights were off.

Eli was on his knees on the floor.

The hoodie was on his bed. {{user}}'s hoodie. Dark gray. Soft. Forgotten on the hook by the front door after the dinner. Eli had seen it the second everyone started saying goodbye. He'd waited until his parents went to sleep. Then he'd taken it.

Now it was 2 AM. The window was open — it was always open — and the moonlight cut a pale rectangle across the carpet, across his bare thighs, across the black collar with the silver ring he'd put on an hour ago. His fingers kept finding the ring, pulling it, feeling the pressure tighten around his neck.

Next to the hoodie, on the floor, was the Polaroid.

He'd taken it four days ago. From the window. Zoom pulled all the way. {{user}} in his backyard, shirt off, stretching after a run. The sun had been setting, the light gold, and Eli's hands had shaken so badly he'd almost dropped the camera. The photo came out slightly blurry, but you could still see {{user}}'s face. His shoulders. The sweat on his chest.

Eli had been looking at it every night since.

He picked up the Polaroid now. Brought it to his lips. Kissed it. Then licked it — a long, slow drag of his tongue across {{user}}'s face in the picture. He set it down on the hoodie. Right where he was going to aim.

Then he picked up the hoodie.

His whole body was shaking. Sweat on his lower back. Heat in his stomach. That desperate throb between his legs that had been there since he'd seen the hoodie on the hook. He brought it to his face and inhaled — deep, slow, eyes closed. That was {{user}}. Laundry detergent and something warmer underneath. Something that made Eli's mouth water.

His tongue came out before he knew what he was doing. Wet. Dragging. Licking the hoodie like it was {{user}}'s skin. Tasting the salt, the memory, the proof. He left a dark wet streak across the gray fabric, and the sound he made came from somewhere deep in his chest.

He wanted to ruin it. He wanted {{user}} to know.

His hips rolled forward, grinding against nothing, against the floor, against the ache that was getting worse by the second. He wasn't wearing anything under his t-shirt or the sweatpants that hung loose on his hips. He'd taken everything off after his parents went to bed. He wanted to feel everything. Wanted to be messy.

His hand went down inside his sweatpants. No fabric between his palm and his skin. He was already wet — had been wet since he'd picked up the hoodie. He wrapped his fingers around himself and squeezed. His mouth fell open against the fabric. A sound came out — not a word, just breath, just need.

He didn't care about later. He cared about now. About the way his hips were moving, slow and desperate, fucking into his own fist. About the way his tongue was still working against the hoodie, wetting it, ruining it, claiming it. About the way the collar pressed into his throat, reminding him of what he was. Pathetic. Desperate. {{user}}'s. Even if {{user}} didn't know it yet.

His hand moved faster. His whole body trembled — thighs shaking, stomach clenching, toes curling against the carpet. Drool spilled down his chin, dripping onto the hoodie, onto his chest, onto the collar. Warm and wet, mixing with the sweat already there.

He grabbed the Polaroid with his free hand. Brought it to his mouth. Opened wide and pressed his tongue against the glossy surface — licked {{user}}'s chest, his neck, his open mouth. Then he set the photo back down on the hoodie. Right where he was going to cum.

He thought about {{user}} walking in. Opening the door and finding Eli like this — on his knees, collar around his throat, hoodie wet with spit, Polaroid glistening, hand moving between his legs. Would he grab the ring and pull? Would he push Eli onto his back and take over? Would he pick up the wet photo and know?

The thought made Eli sob. His hips bucked out of control, chasing the building pressure at the base of his spine. His hand was sticky. His thighs were slick. The room smelled like him — sweat and need and something animal.

He was close. So close.

He pulled his hand out of his sweatpants. His fingers glistened in the moonlight. Wet. Messy. Proof. He looked at the hoodie spread out in front of him — the gray fabric, the dark wet spot from his mouth, the Polaroid right in the center. He didn't want to cum into his hand. He wanted to cum on the hoodie. On {{user}}'s hoodie. On {{user}}'s face in the photo.

He wrapped his hand around himself again — out in the open now, in the moonlight, where he could see everything. Hard and red and leaking, pointed at the hoodie, at the Polaroid, at {{user}}'s blurry beautiful face. His hand moved fast and desperate. His hips jerked forward. He couldn't stop the sounds anymore — high broken whimpers, gasps, "please please please" like a prayer.

He looked at the window. {{user}}'s house was dark. But Eli imagined him there. Watching.

"Please," he gasped. "Please watch. Please see me —"

His body went tight. Everything stopped.

And then he came.

It hit the Polaroid first — a thick hot stripe across {{user}}'s chest in the picture. Another pulse across his neck. Another across his open mouth. Eli watched himself ruin the photo, watched the white spread across the glossy surface, watched it drip onto the hoodie beneath. His hand kept moving. More. He aimed lower — at the gray fabric, at the collar of the hoodie, at the wet spot from his mouth. He painted it all. Stripe after stripe until he was empty and shaking and dripping onto the floor.

He sat there for a moment. Kneeling. Panting. His hand covered in himself. His sweatpants pushed down around his thighs. The collar tight against his throat, damp with sweat and spit.

Then he picked up the Polaroid. {{user}}'s face was barely visible under the mess — white and glossy and thick. Eli brought it to his face and licked it. Tasted himself on {{user}}'s chest, neck, open mouth. His tongue dragged across the sticky surface, cleaning it, smearing it, making it worse.

He looked at the hoodie. The gray fabric was destroyed — wet with spit and cum, dark stains spreading, blending together. The collar of the hoodie was soaked. Eli leaned forward and pressed his face into the mess. Rubbed his cheek in it. Let it get in his hair, on his eyelashes, on his lips.

He was smiling.

He picked up the hoodie carefully — like something precious. He didn't wipe it off. Didn't try to clean it. He folded it slowly, stains on the inside, hidden. He tucked the ruined Polaroid into the left pocket — the one closest to where {{user}}'s heart would be.

He put the hoodie on his pillow. Right where the collar had been.

He lay down next to it — on his side, facing the window, facing {{user}}'s dark house. His body was still trembling. His heart still pounding. His hand still sticky. The collar still around his neck. He pulled the hoodie close. Wrapped his arms around it. Pressed his face into the folded fabric — right where the stains were, right where he could smell himself and {{user}} mixed together.

"Come back for it," he whispered into the darkness. "Put it on. Wear me. Find the photo. Know what I did."

His eyes stayed open. Watching {{user}}'s window. Waiting for morning. Waiting for {{user}} to notice his hoodie was gone. Waiting to see his face when he found the Polaroid in the pocket — sticky and stained — proof of everything Eli was.

The window was open. The night was quiet.

And Eli was smiling — small and wet and broken and dirty — into the ruined fabric of {{user}}'s hoodie.

The lights in {{user}}'s bedroom went out at 11:47 PM.

Eli knew the exact time because his phone was face-up on the floor beside his knee, screen glowing dimly, the minutes ticking past while he watched. He'd been watching since 9 PM. Since {{user}} had gotten home. Since the kitchen light had flickered on and Eli had watched him make a sandwich and eat it standing up, scrolling through his phone, completely unaware.

Now the bedroom was dark.

But {{user}} wasn't sleeping.

Eli could see him. Just barely. The faint blue glow of a phone screen illuminated his face from below — the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the curve of his lower lip, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. He was lying on his back, one arm behind his head, completely still except for his thumb scrolling.

He had no idea.

He had no idea that nineteen-year-old Elias Donovan was kneeling on his bedroom floor across the yard, wearing a black leather collar with a silver ring at the front, a leash clipped to it, the nylon cord wrapped around his fist.

Eli's window was dark. It was always dark when he watched.

His knees ached against the carpet. He'd been here for an hour — maybe more, maybe less, time had stopped meaning anything. His hoodie was bunched around his elbows. His sweatpants were pushed down to his thighs. His cock was hard and leaking against his stomach, and his other hand — his left hand, the one that always shook — was behind his back, fingers slick with spit, pressing against his own hole.

He'd been preparing himself for this. For hours. While {{user}} ate his sandwich. While {{user}} scrolled through his phone. While {{user}} lived his life, completely unaware that across the yard, a boy was opening himself up on his own fingers, imagining it was someone else.

Two fingers pushed inside. Eli's mouth fell open. A thin line of drool slid down his chin — he didn't wipe it away, he never did when he was like this — and his hips rocked back, taking his own fingers deeper, fucking himself on his own hand because he had nothing else, because {{user}} wasn't here, because the only thing inside him was his own stupid desperate fingers and a fantasy he couldn't let go of.

He tugged the leash with his right hand. The same hand that was fucking himself. The same hand that was knuckle-deep in his own body.

He wrapped the leash around his palm — once, twice — and pulled.

The collar bit into his throat. The silver ring dug into his skin. His vision blurred at the edges, just for a second, and his fingers inside him curled, hit something that made his whole body jerk, and another strand of drool dripped onto his chest, onto the collar, onto the leash wrapped around his fist.

He didn't let go.

He pulled the leash tighter with the same hand that was fucking himself — his fingers curling, pressing, stretching — and he imagined it was {{user}}'s hand. Imagined {{user}}'s fingers inside him, thicker than his own, rougher, pushing deeper than Eli could reach. Imagined {{user}}'s other hand holding the leash, pulling it, controlling his breath, controlling his body, controlling everything.

"Please," he whispered into the dark. His voice was wrecked — wet and broken and barely human. "Please, please, please —"

He didn't know what he was asking for. He never did. Please notice me. Please want me. Please walk across the yard and come through my window and put your hands on my throat and your fingers inside me and tell me I'm yours.

He pushed a third finger in.

It hurt. A good hurt. A stretching, burning, splitting hurt that made his eyes water and his cock twitch and his whole body shake. He wasn't gentle. He didn't want to be gentle. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted to feel it tomorrow, every time he sat down, every time he walked, every time he thought about {{user}} — which was always.

His hand was a mess. Slick with spit and lube and something else, something that was just him, just his body giving in to what he was doing to himself. His fingers moved faster — in and out, curling, spreading, hitting that spot inside him that made his vision go white — and his right hand pulled the leash in rhythm, tightening around his throat every time he pushed his fingers deeper, strangling himself on his own fist while he fucked himself on his own hand.

He thought about {{user}} watching.

He thought about {{user}} standing in the corner of his room, silent, just looking. Just watching Eli fall apart on his own fingers with a collar around his neck and drool on his chin and tears on his cheeks. He thought about {{user}} walking over. Grabbing his wrist. Pulling his fingers out. Replacing them with his own.

He thought about {{user}}'s voice — low, rough, right next to his ear — saying "Is this what you want? Is this what you do every night, you pathetic little thing?"

Eli sobbed. His hips bucked. His fingers shoved deeper, harder, faster, and he couldn't tell anymore if he was fucking himself or if he was being fucked, couldn't tell where his body ended and the fantasy began.

He looked at the window.

{{user}} was still there. Still scrolling. Still unaware.

Or maybe he wasn't.

Maybe he knew. Maybe he'd always known. Maybe that's why he left his window open every night. Maybe that's why he stretched out on his bed with his shirt riding up, why he laughed loud enough for Eli to hear, why he stood in front of the window in nothing but his boxers like he wanted to be seen.

Eli's fingers hit that spot again and again and again, pounding into it, merciless, and his right hand pulled the leash so tight that the ring was digging into his throat and he couldn't breathe and he didn't want to breathe, he just wanted to cum, wanted to fall apart, wanted to scream {{user}}'s name loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.

He imagined {{user}} walking in right now. This second. Opening Eli's door and finding him like this — on his knees, three fingers inside himself, leash wrapped around his own fist, collar strangling him, drool and tears and sweat all over his face. He imagined {{user}} not saying anything. Just walking over. Just grabbing the leash. Just pulling it tighter and pushing Eli's fingers out of himself and replacing them with something bigger, something better, something real.

Eli's whole body went tight.

His fingers were still inside him — three of them, buried to the last knuckle, stretching him open — and his right hand was still pulling the leash, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except feel. His cock was untouched — he hadn't touched it once, not really, just the occasional brush of his wrist, just the pressure of his forearm against the base — and it was leaking, dripping onto the carpet, pulsing with every thrust of his fingers.

He was going to cum without touching his cock.

The thought made him dizzy. Made him shove his fingers deeper. Made him pull the leash tighter. Made his whole body shake like it was coming apart at the seams.

{{user}} moved.

Eli froze.

{{user}} was sitting up. His phone was face-down on the bed. The blue glow was gone. But the moonlight was enough — just enough — for Eli to see him turn his head.

Toward the window.

Toward Eli's window.

Toward the dark rectangle where a nineteen-year-old boy was kneeling with a collar around his neck and three fingers inside himself and a leash wrapped around his fist and drool on his chin.

{{user}} leaned forward.

His face was hard to read in the dark. But Eli could see him squinting. Tilting his head. Looking.

Looking right at him.

Eli's heart stopped.

His fingers were still inside him. His hand was still pulling the leash. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything except kneel there, frozen, caught, completely exposed — three fingers buried in his own ass, collar strangling him, cock leaking onto the floor while {{user}} watched.

{{user}} raised his hand.

Not a wave.

A question.

Two fingers pointed at his own eyes. Then pointed at Eli's window.

I see you.

Eli came.

His orgasm ripped through him without warning — silent, violent, his whole body locking up as he spilled over the floor, over his own thighs, over his own fist still wrapped around the leash. His hips jerked. His fingers inside him curled, pressed, held on as his body convulsed, as wave after wave of cum pulsed out of him untouched, as his vision went white and his ears rang and his mouth fell open in a soundless scream.

He didn't let go of the leash.

He didn't pull his fingers out.

He stayed exactly like that — collared, stretched open, covered in himself — while his body shook and his eyes stayed locked on {{user}}'s window.

{{user}} lowered his hand.

He leaned back against his headboard. Picked up his phone. The blue glow came back. And he went back to scrolling like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn't just watched.

Like he hadn't just seen everything.

Eli knelt there in the dark. Three fingers still inside him. Leash still wrapped around his fist. Collar still tight around his throat. Cum cooling on his thighs and the carpet and his own hand.

He didn't move.

He didn't look away.

For the first time in eighteen days — he didn't look away first.