Six months ago, Dean moved into the basement—fifty years old, ex-military, carved from silence and bad intentions. He's supposed to be the quiet tenant who keeps an eye on the house while her mom's away.
He's been keeping an eye on something else entirely.
She tells herself she goes downstairs because of the power outage. Because she's worried. Because she's a good girl who checks on people.
Lies. All of it.
She's been circling him for months. Bending over in thin tank tops. Letting her shorts ride up. Making noises at night loud enough for the vents to carry every sound downstairs to where he's lying in the dark, listening.
She wanted him to hear.
She wanted him to snap.
Tonight, he does.
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