To ruin an Omega

Chapter 252: Eyes that see 3

Leon’s POV

The alarm never needed to sound. My body knew the time before the digital display clicked to 6:00 a.m. Five years of the same schedule had carved grooves into my nervous system deeper than any external reminder could reach.

I rolled from bed, feet finding the cold hardwood floor. The apartment held that particular silence of early morning, when the city hadn’t yet remembered how to make noise. My neighbors lived different lives, kept different hours. They stumbled home at 2 a.m. while I slept. They slept through the dawn while I worked.

The bathroom mirror reflected back what it always did. Pale skin that rarely saw sunlight. Dark circles under gray eyes. Hair that stuck up in the same three directions every morning. I didn’t bother trying to fix it yet. That came later, after the coffee, after the routine that kept me sane.

Water ran cold from the tap. I splashed it on my face, letting the shock wake up parts of my brain that sleep had dulled. The towel hung exactly where I’d left it. Everything in its place. Everything predictable.

My reflection stared back from the frosted glass window that faced east. The morning light filtered through it, turning my image into something soft and blurred. I preferred it that way. Sharp edges hurt to look at, especially my own.

The new apartment building across the courtyard had filled up over the past month. Moving trucks, voices in the hallway, the sounds of people building lives in empty spaces. I’d watched from my kitchen window, careful to stay back from the glass. People fascinated me in theory. In practice, they made me nervous.

My morning ritual began the same way it had for years. Private. Methodical. A release that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with maintaining equilibrium. Like taking vitamins or checking email. Just another task that kept the machinery of my day running smoothly.

The frosted glass cast strange shadows. Light played across the bathroom tiles in patterns that shifted as clouds moved overhead. I closed my eyes and let muscle memory take over. This wasn’t about fantasy or desire. It was about balance. About starting each day with a clean slate.

The minutes passed in familiar rhythm. My breathing stayed even, controlled. Outside, the city began its daily resurrection. Car engines turning over. Footsteps on pavement. The distant hum of traffic growing stronger.

I finished with the same detachment I brought to washing dishes or folding laundry. Functional. Necessary. The shower would come next, then coffee, then three hours of painting before the light got too harsh.

But something felt different today. A weight in the air that hadn’t been there yesterday. I glanced toward the frosted window, seeing nothing but my own distorted reflection staring back. The feeling passed. Everything was as it should be.

The routine continued. Shower temperature set to exactly what my skin could tolerate without flinching. Soap in the same order, same motions. Hair washed twice, conditioned once. The ritual of cleanliness that followed the ritual of release.

Steam fogged the frosted glass completely. My reflection disappeared into white mist. Better that way. I’d never been comfortable with mirrors, with the way they forced you to confront yourself whether you wanted to or not.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in my kitchen with coffee that tasted like it always did. Bitter, strong, necessary. The easel waited in the front room, canvas stretched and primed. The morning light would be perfect for another hour, maybe two.

I’d been working on a series of self-portraits, though I never called them that. Studies in isolation, I told myself. Examinations of solitude. The kind of work that sold well to people who understood loneliness but didn’t want to admit it.

The coffee mug warmed my hands. Outside, the building across the courtyard looked different in daylight. More windows had curtains now. More signs of life. I wondered about the people behind those windows, what routines they followed, what rituals kept them anchored.

Then I turned away from the window and went to paint.

***

Julian’s POV

The boxes could wait another day. I’d been telling myself that for a week, but the truth was I liked the chaos. Empty spaces made me nervous. They demanded decisions about where things belonged, and I’d never been good at making those kinds of choices.

Coffee first. Always coffee first. I’d managed to unpack the machine on day one, priorities being what they were. The kitchen faced east, which meant morning light, which meant I could see the building across the small courtyard while the caffeine worked its magic.

The architecture here was different from my last place. Older, more character. Windows that actually opened. Neighbors close enough to wave to if that were something I did. Which it wasn’t, but the option existed.

I’d been in the city for three years but had never lived anywhere long enough to learn the rhythms of a neighborhood. Six months here, eight months there, always ready to move when the rent got too high or the walls closed in. This place felt different, though. Like somewhere I might stay.

The coffee maker gurgled to life. I leaned against the counter and looked out at the morning. The building across the way had character too. Fire escapes zigzagging down brick walls. Windows with different curtains, different lives behind them.

Movement caught my eye. A light had come on in one of the bathrooms. Frosted glass, but bright enough to see through. I wasn’t trying to look. The light just drew attention, the way sudden changes always did.

Someone was moving around in there. A figure, blurred by the textured glass but clearly human. Clearly male, from the height and shape. I should have looked away. Should have focused on my coffee, on the boxes that needed unpacking, on anything else.

But I didn’t.

The figure moved with purpose. Routine. There was something methodical about it that made me think of dancers or athletes, people who knew their bodies well enough to move without thinking. The frosted glass turned everything into suggestion, shadow and light playing tricks on perception.

I told myself I was being ridiculous. People lived their lives. They moved through their spaces. There was nothing unusual about someone being in their bathroom at 6:15 in the morning. Nothing worth staring at.

The coffee finished brewing. I poured a cup and took it to the window, closer than I needed to be for just looking outside. The warm mug felt good in my hands. The morning air coming through the crack in the window felt cool on my face.

The figure was still there. Still moving in that same deliberate way. I wondered what his life was like, what brought him to that bathroom at exactly this time every morning. Did he work early shifts? Was he one of those people who got up before dawn to exercise?

The movement changed. became more focused. More intimate.

I should have walked away then. Should have taken my coffee to the living room, unpacked another box, done something useful with my morning. Instead, I stayed by the window and watched.

The frosted glass revealed nothing explicit. Just shapes, shadows, the suggestion of movement. But there was something hypnotic about it. Something that made me forget about coffee, about boxes, about everything except the figure behind the glass.

He was tall. Lean. The kind of build that came from not eating enough rather than from working out. His movements were precise, controlled. Even through the distortion of the glass, I could see that he approached everything with the same careful attention.

Minutes passed. I lost track of how many. The coffee grew cold in my hands. The morning light shifted, casting different shadows across the courtyard. But I stayed where I was, watching someone I’d never met perform a private ritual he had no idea he was sharing.

When it ended, it ended quickly. The figure moved away from the window. Water ran. The shower, probably. Normal morning routine resuming after whatever that had been.

I stepped back from the window, suddenly aware of what I’d been doing. The coffee tasted bitter and cold. My hands were shaking slightly, though from caffeine or something else, I couldn’t tell.

The bathroom light stayed on. Steam began to fog the frosted glass from the inside. The figure became even more indistinct, just a suggestion of movement behind white mist.

I forced myself to turn away, to walk back to the kitchen, to think about breakfast or unpacking or anything other than the stranger across the courtyard. But the image stayed with me. The careful way he moved. The precision of his routine. The inadvertent intimacy of watching someone who thought he was alone.

The boxes in my living room seemed less important now than they had an hour ago. I had something else to think about. Someone else to wonder about. A neighbor I’d never met but already felt connected to in a way that probably said more about me than I wanted to admit.

Tomorrow morning, I told myself, I’d sleep in. Or drink my coffee somewhere else. Or keep the curtains closed.

But I knew I wouldn’t. Some routines, once started, were impossible to break.