ᑾᐡᑴᐱᒋᑲᐣ᙮ | 1491

Your late husband is just as married to his work as he was to you, and when he passes away the years he poured into that organization results in a methodical care package train of meals and gift cards from his office.

Just when you think it will become unsustainable and surely the effort will run dry as these things tend to, someone from his office — usually one of the other men, Simon or Kyle or Johnny — will run something by to get you through the week. You've cried more times from their generosity and no matter how much you try to refuse it, they refuse to listen. It's a tight hug, wrapped in thick muscles and a strong heartbeat against your temple, and a "John would haunt me in my dreams if we didn't care of his missus" that made you cry harder.

—

Simon keeps you fed with tea, comfortable with the long silences. Johnny fills them, bless his heart. A hand on your knee or shoulder, squeezing, eyes piercing yours through the thick fog of grief. Kyle does puzzles with you. He now keeps one laid out on your kitchen table, his side and your side. When he comes over, he tucks at least an hour into it, even if you don't always feel like sitting there with him.

—

You watch him one Sunday morning, sitting with the radio on, listening to his fingers twist against the puzzle pieces, his fingertip bumping against the ridges. It's three months past now, and you cry less and stare more, but he stays. Putters around your kitchen, putting it to rights, ignoring your use of paper plates or juice boxes because some things feel like too much work.

You fit your piece in and then go lie down on the couch, knowing he'll stand to flick off the kitchen light, crouch slightly to turn off the standing living room lamp, and will settle a quilt over your body and over his legs slightly. He'll take the remote from your open palm and put on some British crime procedural show he loves and you can't follow and within the hour, you'll be asleep.

—

Over time, Simon and Johnny stop coming in. Always a peck on the cheek and warm words with the meal drop-off, but they're getting too busy with work and their own lives. Can't be a year past their beloved boss's death and they're still popping in and visiting his widow every week.

But Kyle comes. A quiet and calm body across from the table.

—

You go on your first date since John died. It ends in sex. You don't cry. You laugh on the drive home and tell Kyle over a puzzle the next day.

You pretend not to see the flicker in his dark gaze and the tight wrinkle between his eyes.

—

"I feel like everyone's just waiting for me to settle down right away. It's so weird. I think they think I won't be sad anymore, or like it'll make them feel better about me."

"You've been on lots of dates. Nobody catchin' your eye?"

"Sure, loads. To talk to, maybe kiss, maybe even…you know. But I don't want to see them again. It's just new and different and weird and that feels…I don't know. Safer, I guess."

"Makes sense. Well, if you do find someone that sticks around longer than date two, feel free to tell me sling my hook."

—

You go for a hike with your sister and she brings it up as nonchalantly as a rocket launcher. You get defensive.

—

One night at a bar with Kyle and his friends, you watch a hot woman try to hit on him. His smile's wide, a beacon that could launch a thousand ships, but his eyes aren't crinkled. He bends down a little to hear her better, laughs warmly, but it's not reaching the dark soulful gaze that finds yours over her head. A little smile your way — realer than the big one. A simmer of electricity buzzing in the dark.

"Did you get that woman's number?"

"Which one?"

"Either."

"Nah. Not my type."

It feels too dangerous to ask the obvious next question.

—

The food deliveries stop.

—

Then, you're wandering through your garden one July evening two weeks later with a glass of red wine, plucking weeds with your free hand, when a familiar truck pulls up. Kyle hops out, alone, and beams you a big smile, his eyes crinkling in the late summer sun. You expect him to open the passenger door and grab packages, but he just strides comfortably and loosely up the brick path. Stands where the dahlias brush open against his thighs, and sticks his hands in his pockets.

"Hey, you," you smile.

"Hiya. I got something to tell you."

"Oh…okay?" Your stomach twists.

"I don't want to just deliver your food anymore; I want to make it for you. Or with you. I don't want to come by for a long visit and chat and get up in the night to drive home. I want to wake up and do a puzzle with you. Fall asleep with you and bring you to bed. I don't wanna listen to you talk about dates; I want to to take you on them myself."

You pad on the sun-warmed stepping stones, overgrown with clover, toward him.

"I want to take care of you. Make your life a little easier in some way."

You wind your way up the brick path to the front porch. You keep the wine glass in your hand as you sit on the porch swing. Kyle watches you. You motion for him to come up. He sits beside you on the swing, setting the motion of it off crooked as you both set your feet down to right the angle.

"Think you'll be able to fall in love with me?"

"What?" His voice sounds strangled.

You laugh, and a tear escapes down your cheek hot and fast, unexpected. "Yeah. I had a feeling. I think it'll be easy for me, too."

-

Kyle thinks about the night before, the loud pub, his mates from London all rowdy over the footie match that was on the TV. There had been a constant flow of pints and shots and pretty pretty birds stopping by just to say hi. Kyle didn't usually entertain that kind of attention, he was on leave, could be called back at any time, he didn't need to hurt some woman's heart with his choice of career.

But there was someone who caught his eye.

You.

You had come into the pub and taken a seat at the far end of the bar nursing a drink while looking at something on your phone before looking around the bar as if searching for something, or someone.

You had run into him by chance, both of you queued up for the bathroom. You had complimented his hat, said it was patriotic, asked if he served. He had waved you off with a laugh. But he hadn't missed the way you eyed the hat, then his boots and his jacket. None of it was regulation, but he supposes there might have been something vaguely military about it.

He had approached you, slipped into the empty seat next to you and asked what you were drinking. You looked surprised to see him again, even more when he offered to get you a drink. You told him you had been stood up. You had seemed nervous, told him pretty boys at the pub didn't typically buy you drinks. He had thought it was a shame and was drunk enough to tell you so.

It gets fuzzy from there. Had he left with you? Had he left with his mates? Had someone picked him up off the street? Recognized him? Had you been with him?

Stupid fuckass hat.

That same phrase again, the voice panicked and frustrated. He wants to think he recognizes it, that he will get some answers to his questions but his brain is fuzzy and his left arm is starting to fall asleep from the way he's laying on it. And is his captor baking? It smells strongly of sugar, butter and something chocolaty.

When the door finally opens he's ready for it. His feet are free, his hands still tied and numb, but he's listened long enough to know his captor is alone and in the habit of singing along to the songs on the radio in between bouts of cursing.

"Oh, you're a—"

Kyle leaps out of the bed, the room must not have been very big because his shoulder hits a soft stomach, the person lets out a shocked oof as they fall to the floor.

It is you.

You scramble away from him, the eye mask pulling off in the scuffle. You are not dressed like any captor he has met before, typically they don't wear satiny robes and house slippers. Nor do they bake while they have a man tied up in the other room. Well, maybe not the terrorist types he typically deals with.

"Fuck, are you okay? I didn't mean to, I mean, fuck." You drop your head back against the wall.

"Didn't mean to what? Tie me up?"

Kyle wiggles until he can sit up. He's in desperate need of paracetamol and water, and to get his hands free.

"No, I mean, yes because I did tie you up, which feels totally illegal and I'm so sorry, but, shit, would you believe me if I said I thought you were someone else?"

You had tied him up on accident?

Kyle can't help but laugh, it pulls uncomfortably on his arms yet he doesn't stop. His RTI training had prepared him for getting captured but he always imagined it would be by trained professionals, that he would wake up in a chair with guns trained on him. Maybe some light waterboarding, threats to his body, his friends, his family.

"Can you untie me?"

It's a simple enough request.

"I could," you start and then eye him uncertainly, "but could you maybe agree to not kill me? I mean, at minimum it would be great if you didn't call the cops?"

"Fucking hell, kill you?" he asks, shocked because what about him last night or when he had been unconscious had screamed killer to you.

You leap up, not bothering to help him and return, looking sheepish and holding his hat, his wallet with both his ID and his military ID — which you would have seen if you had been snooping— the knife that Ghost had gotten him last Christmas, and his phone which lights up repeatedly with messages.

"I have tea and cookies and there is a cake in the oven and I can make you a cup of coffee if you prefer, just..." you trail off, standing in the doorway with his things.

"Fine, okay? I won't call the cops, just untie me."

Your unease quickly melts away into a smile. Far too naive, far too trusting for someone who had panicked and tied him up in fear he might kill you.

Your kitchen is tidy despite the chaotic way you move around it, first grilling him on his tea preference, then making him a plate with far more sweets than he could ever eat (Ghost would be in heaven if someone tied him up and fed him sweets). You're babbling as you go, something about an ex-boyfriend and a friend and you had been out of town. None of it was making sense and the paracetamol you had given him had yet to do its job.

"Sit down and tell it t'me slower."

You sit obediently, your own cup of tea is only lukewarm now but you sip at it gingerly before turning to Kyle.

"I was away on a work assignment, my friend started dating this total loser, Kyle. Kind of bloke who walks around in camo, has the stupid blacked out flag hat, the stolen valor type. Well he cheats on her, then starts harassing her, following her around to her favorite places and we tried telling the police about it but they didn't give a shit, so I thought I would scare him."

"Scare him?"

"Look, it wasn't a very well thought out plan, was it? You weren't supposed to blackout, we didn't even drink that much. You weren't even the right Kyle!"

"So your plan was to lure back the military obsessed stalker ex to your flat? And what? Scare him straight?"

It's ballsy, he'll give you that.

"No. Yes? Maybe, but when I realized you weren't him you were so far gone. Bloody hell are you heavy, and then I got you here and kept panicking. A knife? Really?"

"And the ex? Evil Kyle."

"Already bothering her at the cafe this morning. Fuck, I am so dumb."

You look as though you want the floor to swallow you, the embarrassment is clear on your face, in the way you bite at your lip.

Kyle's phone lights up again, there's no name on the caller id, but he recognizes the number.

"I gotta take this call, but after you can convince me not to press chargers by telling me about what else you can bake."

Your face brightens, the barest hint of a smile at the corners of your lips, your eyes widening and the frown marks between your brows smoothing out in surprise.

"Okay, yeah sure, you can take it in my room. I promise I won't try to poison you or anything."

Kyle has multiple missed calls and texts, when he calls back the number he isn't at all surprised to hear Ghost's voice on the other end, gruff and bored with his own leave.

"Thought I was goin' t'ave t'send out search an' rescue," he says instead of hello.

"You free?"

"Got a bottle o'whiskey an' a date with my 'and later, why?"

"Cancel the date, got a job for you. Goin' to break a few laws and maybe a few bones."

"Aww, didja meet someone? Too busy fuckin' t'answer my calls?"

"You could say I was tied up."

Simon laughs, "kinky, Garrick, I like it."

AN: if you missed it, a few other writer are doing this in order to raise money to help the Indigenous communities in Canada that have been impacted by fires. Please consider donating, or spreading awareness by reblogging!

Sitting on the steps, your hands are limp in your lap as a detective kneels before you. Her posture is professional but kind as she nods along to your rambling while she records it on her notepad. You keep shaking your head. Eyes squeezing shut, you go to wipe at your eyes until you realize you can't with the substance that stains you. Your tears are quiet. The detective hands you a tissue, but it's not enough.

A few officers stop him from approaching you—a job he appreciates as a captain. Keep the area secure. But they don't see the storm raging in his chest. Anger and fear bundled into one from your frantic please, they're in the house text message that stirred him from a dead sleep at half past two in the morning. They don't know how he would rip the world apart to hold you.

"John?"

Tender—your call for him is the only key he needs. They let him pass. Understanding the look on his face, the detective says she has enough information for now, but still gives you her card to call her if there's anything else you want to add. John replaces her spot, kneeling before you with his hands cupping over yours, unafraid of the blood that taints them.

"Are you hurt?" It's the thing that's been eating at him the most. He can heal the emotional and psychological scars, but he wouldn't be able to live with himself if you were injured.

You shake your head. "It's not my blood. It's not my blood."

He has to scrape you off of the steps to get you into his car. Limp like fresh carrion, he guides you the whole way there, leading you to the passenger's seat and buckling you in when you can't seem to get your fingers to work well enough to do it yourself. The drive to his place is quiet. He doesn't bother to turn the radio on as the engine rattles below his feet while you stare through the windshield with eyes he wishes he could polish back into shining again.

Everything is simple once he pulls up to his house—slow. No sudden movements lest he scares you into hiding again. When he opens the door for you, offering you his hand to keep yourself steady as you rise, he expects you to keep quiet but is pleasantly surprised when you speak.

"I want a bath."

He has no qualms about it, and leads you to the bathroom the moment the front door is locked behind him. There's no fuss about being naked in front of him. You're too numb to it. All you can do is sink down into the water John's drawn for you and sit as the plain water dissolves the filth staining you. John stays nearby watching as you pitifully thumb at the dried blood on your hands, but it's all you seem focused on. It still lingers in dry patches along your throat, chin—even the tip of your nose that he loves to pepper with kisses.

Seeing you like this breaks him. It's as if you're holding a mirror up to him when he comes back from overseas, body battered and mind attempting to mend and replace the parts that make him human; but he's just a copy of a copy of a copy. He's so blurred out that sometimes he can't see his true self through the gore.

Unable to handle seeing you like this, John dips his hand in the water and raises it to your face. You don't move or flinch when he rubs his thumb over your collarbone to scrape away the blood, and he's not sure if he should take pride in knowing that you don't fear him, or mourn the smile that should be breaking on your lips at this movement.

"I was so scared." Your voice is hollow. It lacks the lilt of happiness that should be there; that wide-eyed awe he loves to witness in your spirit that now seems snuffed out—ash baked into the ground. "I thought I was going to die when they broke in. I didn't know what to do. Grabbed a knife from the kitchen and I just… I dunno…"

John doesn't stop cleaning you. Each pass of his wet thumb over your body is another inch clean—another inch of you he gets back. He passes over the apple of your cheek and the tip of your nose before you finally look up at him.

"I just kept thinking that I couldn't die. I had to stay alive. For you." Your voice breaks as the tears begin to well up in the corners of your eyes again. "I had to see you again."

Someday, John will tell you about the mantra that keeps him going when he's away from you, and how eerily similar it is to the one you're spewing at him now. He'll tell you about all the things he's done, and how he's done them all for you. For now, he settles for kissing the tip of your nose and revels in knowing that you're safe in his hands.

"You were so brave, darling. I've got you. You did what you had to," he assures before cradling the back of your head. "Let me do the work, now."

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it's therapeutic, in a way, to let more mundane thoughts and memories wash over your mind and cleanse your palate of the horrors your neighbor had been unwittingly subjecting you to. it's a much more intimate method of people-watching, and you enjoy sitting in your corner with the book you aren't reading propped in your hand, trying to match what memories and thoughts belong to which customer.

the young professional squinting at his laptop screen is likely the one who's trying and failing at making complicated financial data make sense. the young teenager waiting for her iced coffee is likely the one that's agonizing over a bad test score. you're pretty sure it's either the barista or the pretty goth girl that's still in line trying to mentally plan their next manicure and wondering if their nail tech is up to the challenge of a particularly ornate design. it's a total toss-up which four folks have their minds totally distracted by the big fluffy samoyed that's sat outside the big windows, patiently waiting for it's owner to finish her animated conversation with her friend about how her work acquaintance is likely embezzling from the company.

your coffee is delicious, the cafe' is full of wonderfully mundane thoughts and memories, and the weather is gorgeous. a thought floats across your mind- one of your own- and you wonder if you should try making a little money tonight. after all, there's a back room poker game later on this evening- god knows it's an easy way to pad your pockets and kill several hours away from home. it's not a terrible idea, really, but there's a mental exhaustion that comes with actively reading multiple minds at once and strategically bombing on occasion so as not to arouse any suspicions of cheating again.

after all, your pinky never did really heal right after the first time you were questioned. it arches away from the rest of your fingers, not bending fully around your coffee- a crooked reminder to not get cocky or comfortable when you're playing cards with sharks.

the only downside to choosing to play poker all night is that it's a cash-only game- which means you have to go back to your flat, braving the contents of kyle's mind just long enough to grab the stack of cash hidden in your closet and slip away again. with any luck (and a lot of strategy) you can walk away from the table with enough extra money to hole up for a week in a nice hotel. you can soothe your stresses in a big jacuzzi tub and order room service and-

your planning grinds to a halt as you feel outside thoughts gradually growing louder and more vibrant in your mind, and it freezes the breath in your lungs as you slowly realize what's happening.

-then it's just two more bloody days until i can get back and finish what we started. better remember to get mum's birthday flowers ordered when i get back to the flat- a flash of a bouquet, peach colored with little bits of pink and yellow- maybe i'll order takeaway for dinner while i'm at it- a rolodex of local restaurants flips in his mind, landing on your favorite lebanese place- i'll have to ring soap and see if he wants to play fifa tonight, that could be fun-

it's almost shocking how normal kyle's thoughts are when he's out of his flat. you stare out the window, looking for any sign of your neighbor heading your way, your eyes wide and mouth agape in shock. you've never seen him in person, really, but you've seen him looking in the mirror before plenty of times. the sound of his thoughts grow steadily louder, and any hopes you had of him simply passing some other direction die as soon as you spot his blue baseball cap bobbing down the street and heading straight towards you.

-so bloody knackered, probably coffee instead of tea today. cappuccino, maybe- a stylized cup of coffee floats through your mind, image sharpening with every step your neighbor takes- yeah, that sounds nice. i wonder if that redhead still works here. what was her name? nina? marina? fuck, she had a nice arse. wonder what it would take to get her to let me fuck it. probably not much.

you can't help the exasperated sigh that slips out of you. it's not like you're a prude- after all, you've had a lifetime of hearing people's most sexual thoughts about one another since way before you were old enough to know what any of it meant- but by virtue of it being from kyle, someone you're already biased against, it's the most obnoxious thing in the world.

a pretty red headed girl smiles she hands over an americano. it's wintertime, she's wearing a turtleneck and the sky is grey outside the cafe windows. christmas music is playing softly in the background, muted by steamers and the low din of chatter in the cafe. she turns to work on another drink, and kyle's eyes catch on the curve of her ass as she bends to pick up a dropped lid.

in your heart you know you should take your coffee and leave, but you're too curious. for one, it's interesting to you that the murder and mayhem you're used to seeing from him is suddenly gone now that he's out and about and not just puttering around his flat. maybe that's just what happens when he's bored- his mind fills the gap between active thoughts with memories, good and bad, because it can't stand to just rest. the epiphany almost makes you feel bad for the man... until you remember the things you've seen him do while on deployment.

hm. maybe karma is real.

it's not until he's crossing the street that you see his face for the first time, and it feels so strange to see him in real life like this. you've managed to avoid running into him for years, and now here he is, just on the other side of a pane of glass, stepping back onto the sidewalk and then pushing open the door to the cafe. he really is a handsome man- and even prettier in person, if you're honest. he looks like a model as he tucks his cap under his arm, flashing a charming smile to the barista behind the counter that gets her twitterpated and giggly.

it was such a surprise the first time you'd seen him through his own eyes in the bathroom mirror- never in your life had you imagined that a face with such kind eyes would be capable of the brutality you'd seen him dole out. it was a shock to the system and a memorable re-enforcement of a lesson long since learned: never ever trust appearances.

it's hard not to stare, but you do make a valiant effort to finally pretend to read your book as he puts in his order. your eyes lock onto a a slightly smudged looking 'b' on the page, watching through his eyes as he dicks around on his phone, texting his sister about birthday plans for their mum as he waits for his order to finish. it's strange to see yourself in the periphery- out of focus, but still very much there, the red cover of your book standing out slightly against the beige and white decor of the cafe.

"americano for kyle?" a pleasant voice rings out over the din of noise, both in your ear and in your head. kyle's attention snaps back up off his phone as soon as he taps 'send', and you sneak a glance right as he happens to look your way.

the shock of it- making eye contact with yourself through his eyes, of the way his thoughts skid to an abrupt halt at the sight of you- almost makes you flinch. instead you drop your gaze back down to your book, pretending nothing happened, waiting for him to move on, to do another sweep for the redhead before he leaves-

he's watching you sit in the corner, eyes lingering on how your round ass fills the seat you occupy. he sees that you're staring down at a book he vaguely remembers hearing someone talk about, and he knows you're not reading. he's noticed your eyes aren't traveling across the pages,instead stuck still on one spot- shit, fuck, goddammit- oh, now they are. how interesting-

bootfalls come closer and closer as you skim your book, strategically choosing to turn the page despite having retained nothing of what your eyes had glossed over.

-just sit close enough to see, but not close enough to raise attention. fuck, what a pretty thing, he thinks as he sits a few tables over. bet i could really bite down on that arse- there's so fucking much of it. i could just sink my teeth in, dig in my fingers, fuck. been a while since i followed a big girl home, wonder if she's a screamer-

flashes of half-formed plans to seduce you flit across his mind, and you wish the samoyed was still here, that kyle could've been distracted by the big beautiful dog instead of you. lebanese, fifa, and flowers for mum are all wiped clear from his thoughts- he's determined to get you in his bed, to bite and fuck and use you as he likes.

there's absolutely no way you're letting that happen- he might be pretty and he might have a big dick, but you've seen the kind of man he really is. you know the things he's done. you're not about to let a goddamned war criminal between your legs.

i'll just catch her eye again, flash her a smile, and ask about her book. that'll get her to talk to me. it'll be easy after that.

his confidence would be sickening if you didn't acknowledge how right he is. if you couldn't hear his thoughts, that beautiful smile paired with that handsome face would make you putty in his hands, there's no denying it. you've seen the memories of him flirting- the man has game. you wouldn't stand a chance.

you pretend to check your phone for the time, pretend to suddenly realize you're late for something, and pretend to be in a massive hurry to leave. it's not an oscar-worthy performance, but it's enough to make your sudden exit plausible, and that's all you need. kyle chuckles to himself in mild surprise when you don't even glance his way, sipping his americano as he watches you through the window, fantasizing about what it would be like to bounce his hips off your ass as he fucks you from behind.

fuck, where are you going, babes? where are you hauling that big fat arse to? bloody hell, look at the jiggle on that girl. what's i'd give to see her on a trampoline-

kyle makes no move to follow, and it's a relief when you're finally out of his sight. the intensity of his little fantasy fades the further out you get, and by the time you're home it's at a much more manageable level, barely distinguishable over the worries of the old woman next door who isn't sure if she forgot to take her meds or if she took her meds and already forgot.

you pull your phone up to your ear, phone already calling a contact that you have saved simply as a red diamond emoji. the call connects, and you don't even wait for a greeting.

"what's the buy-in?"

"it's off." a familiar voice says, clearly annoyed. big d is, on the best of days, a gruff motherfucker anyways- but there's something else happening here. something more than their everyday levels of irritation.

you blink, hard, staring at the inside of your closet where your little portable safe is tucked away under your winter coats and behind your boots.

"it's off?" you repeat, surprised.

"s'wot i said, innit?" d snaps. "the kraut earned 'imself an hmp 'oliday, and until we know wot's been said, it's off."

ah, shit. if that big dumb austrian's been pulled in by the police, god only knows what will happen next. he's a weird one, to be sure- when he's not playing cards and focusing on putting hands together, his thoughts are usually just... empty. nothing there at all. no stray curiosities or memories or even to-do lists. as far as you can tell, the space between his ears is vast, cavernous, and filled with fuckall.

god only knows what a man like that does and says in police custody.

"ah." the phone disconnects in response, and you sigh as you slide it back into your pocket, closing the closet door. so much for your evening plans, you guess.

you preheat your oven for a small frozen pizza as you mull over your run-in with kyle. it's encouraging that he's only replaying his nightmarish memories when he's stagnating at home- and it makes sense, you suppose. you also start thinking about rancid shit when you start feeling stir-crazy, and a man who routinely jumps out of aircraft and gets shot at probably feels restless the second he's off-base and off-duty. with any luck he found someone else to lust after, some other fat girl to follow home and work off some steam with so you can have a peaceful night with mediocre frozen pizza, a joint, and a few good documentaries.

two slices and a half a joint in, you start to feel kyle's thoughts growing louder again. he must be coming home, you reason, and take another deep toke as you brace yourself, cursing your optimism that he might go somewhere else for the night.

-even if it is french. still, could be good. can't remember the last time i read anything for fun, busy as i've been. ghost's a reader, wonder if he's read this. wonder if he liked it. was it him that was telling me about it? or was that raven? so bloody hungry, i should've gotten more than a coffee for lunch. i wonder if that girl is a regular there. i should go back tomorrow, see if i can find her again. wouldn't mind taking a bite out of her, fuck that arse really did look thick enough to sink my teeth into- a proper bite, no holding back- an image flashes in your head, a woman who looks a lot like you, but isn't you. her skin is too clear, hair too perfect, eyes just a little bigger, tits a little perkier. she's an idealized version of you, still fat and sat in the corner of the cafe, reading your book, glancing shyly over the cover.

ugh.

through kyle's eyes, you watch him approach your building, shopping bag rustling on his arm as he fishes out his keys in the lift, mentally finalizing his dinner order for tonight. fantasy-you giggles and smiles at him in both of your minds, and you take a particularly deep toke and turn up the volume on your documentary, david attenborough's voice nearly loud enough to drown out kyle's fantasies as he narrates the journey of a particularly cute looking penguin. it's somehow just enough to distract you from when he imagines you bent over the edge of his couch as he slides the key into the door, toeing off his shoes and digging out his phone to order dinner.

it's not until later, as the credit roll across your screen as orchestral music swells, that you even notice kyle's thoughts again. it's not a memory-it's too vivid- the image playing clearly in your mind: a man in a straw hat and a pale little girl walking across farmland. the little girl speaks simply of god and angels, and they pass by an abandoned church- hey, wait a second.

focusing a little more, you realize that not only is kyle reading, he's reading the same book you'd had in the coffee shop. he must've gone to a bookstore this afternoon and picked it up before heading home. closing your eyes, it's like getting a private movie of your novel, one entirely imagined by your neighbor. it's incredible how clear and realistic his imagination is, and it's better than any film adaptation could ever be. the remote finds your hand, finger instinctively turning off your television as you opt to lean back, eyes closed, head resting on the back of your couch as you let kyle's imagination illustrate your book. for once in your life, the strength of kyle's mental signal to you is an asset, allowing you to enjoy the book at the same time as him.

it's hard to say how much time passes like that, with you blissed out and dozy as you lie back and let your neighbor's imagination wash over you, but it's brought to an abrupt end as a loud knock at your door stirs you from your reverie.

through the peephole is a teenage boy clearly delivering food, little cardboard boxes adding shape to the plastic bag in his hand.

"delivery from agora." the boy says in a bored voice when you open the door.

"oh, uh, i didn't order anything, i think maybe for my neighbor-"

as if summoned, the door to number 542 opens, and your neighbor pops his head out. as the delivery driver peers at the receipt in his hand, you watch kyle's face run through a range of emotions: surprise, disbelief, confusion, and giddiness.

flashes of you on your knees, bend over his couch and smiling coyly over your shoulder, pinned to his mattress underneath him- ugh, god, it's too much too suddenly and you are way, way too high for this.

"goodnight!" you practically squeak, and as the door closes behind you, and you can practically feel kyle's rush of excitement as he stares at your door, the number burning into his memory as he takes the food from the apologetic driver.

a thought that is not of your own mind rings out loud, clear, and full of awe through your wall: