Simon stood near the last aisle, half-hidden by the tall display of canned goods, watching her move between shelves, lost in the mundane task of organizing and stocking. Her name was stitched on the worn fabric of her uniform—a detail he committed to memory the moment he'd seen it, though he had no right to be here. Yet here he was. Couldn't seem to shake this pull she had on him, like an itch crawling under his skin every time he thought of her.

He shouldn't be doing this. She was just another face in a forgettable town, tucked away in a place no one would think to look for him. That was the point. He was meant to blend in, lay low. He didn't get attached. Never had before. But something about her presence, soft yet determined as she went about her work, dragged him back here time and again, even when logic screamed at him to leave.

What're you doin', Riley? She doesn't know you. She'd call the bloody cops if she knew you were skulkin' 'round the aisles like some perv. But that didn't stop him. The thrill of watching her without her knowing, this strange control it gave him—hell, it made him feel alive. He hadn't felt that in years.

He saw her pause, reaching for a can just out of her reach. For a moment, he thought about stepping forward, closing that distance to help her. Yeah, brilliant idea, he mocked himself internally. That's not creepy at all. Instead, he watched, his eyes tracing the small movements of her hands, the way she stretched, her brow furrowing in mild frustration. The image seared into his mind like a brand.