#hesohot

PART TWO OF THE LAMB & THE TIGER

She’s in the shower.

Steam’s fogging the top corners of the glass, but the window gives me enough. More than enough.

The water runs down her back in clean lines. Her head’s tilted back, lips parted. She’s washing her hair slowly, eyes closed, completely unaware she’s not alone.

She doesn’t know how exposed she is. How clear she looks from here.

It’s perfect.

I could stand here for hours. Just watching. Quiet. Controlled.

I shift slightly my leg’s starting to numb. I move my foot just enough to stretch it.

And then

Snap.

A branch under my boot. Sharp. Loud. Crude.

Her head jolts.

I drop lower without thinking, sinking underneath the window.

Fuck.

I hear the water shut off. The curtain pulls back with that familiar slide.

She’s stepped out.

I retreat..quiet, measured steps back to the car.

She takes exactly twenty minutes to dress and paint her face. I’ve timed it.

So I figured I’d do the same.

Touch myself up.

Look a little more… presentable…Approachable.

After all, I was still wearing the clothes I usually kill in. Something plain, forgettable.

But today might call for something different.

Why not try charm before violence?

Sometimes the performance is part of the art.

I start by brushing my hair, slow and deliberate, making sure it’s just the right amount of volume..soft, a little fuller, but still neat..Presentable, Approachable.

Then I move to the stubble.

I shape it carefully, leaving a little more weight around the mustache.

I’ve always thought it made my face look more structured,More trustworthy.

Next, the red flannel. Dark green stripes across the chest..subtle, but enough to pull out the color in my eyes.

My eyes are important..

They do most of the work when I need to seem sincere.

Over the flannel, I layer a thin green vest.

Just enough to add depth. Black jeans, fitted but casual.

And finally, my favorite black leather belt. Not because it’s stylish, because it feels like part of me. Like a tool I’ve always kept close that comes handy.

Thirty five minutes later, I’m in my car. Parked on the far side of the lot close enough to see her, far enough to avoid being seen.

Watching her set up the coffee shop has become… routine. Almost meditative.

She moves with purpose. Focused. Efficient.

Like an ant working inside its nest cleaning, sorting, preparing the space around her.

There’s something fascinating in it.

But my favorite moment always comes at the end.

When she leans over a table to scrub out a stubborn spot, hips tilted just slightly, back arched -without knowing.

That’s when the image comes.

My hand at the back of her neck firm, still, not unkind.

Like how a hunter steadies a newborn fawn before the kill.

The cloth in her hand pressed to her mouth.

Not to hurt her.

“Jack… do you not see how your thoughts are beginning to cloud your judgment?

You speak of her with tenderness, but is that truly what you feel? Or is it simply another illusion you’ve built to disguise your intent?

You don’t honestly believe you’re falling in love with her… do you?”

Maybe I do feel something, Verge.

Not love not in the hearts and flowers way the world romanticizes.