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Hidden in the cover of darkness, Jason watches his sister.
It isn’t as though he really means to; it’s just that old habits are hard to break. Nos Animadverto Totus. And when you’ve spent so long seeing all, it’s hard to remember how to close your eyes again.
She’s not doing anything particularly worth watching — at least, not to anyone else. All she’s doing is lying on her bed studying, doing her homework. She holds a pen between her fingers, twirling it absentmindedly. As he watches, she sits up, rakes her fingers through her hair and ties it up into a messy bun. He watches the way it exposes the curve of her neck, the way a single tendril of hair falls to frame her face.
If she were to look up, she would see him watching. What would she do? Would she get up and close the curtains? Or, instead, would she watch him as he watches her, seeking her own reflection? Would she find something in him worth watching?
A small part of his mind whispers to him that maybe she likes it when he watches her. She’s Spencer Hastings; there isn’t a thing she doesn’t know. She knows his room is right across from hers. She knows her curtains are open, as are his.
It doesn’t matter. He’s done this enough times to know how the story ends: she doesn’t look up. There are more important things for her to think about than the boy next door.
You’re just as bad as Alison is, aren’t you? she’d said to him once. Even now, he remembers his answer: In some ways, even worse.
While Alison had her demons, Jason knows his are of a different breed — and this is one line that even she wouldn’t cross. The worst part, he thinks, is that he just doesn’t care. He may feel guilt, but it certainly isn’t enough to get him to avert his eyes, to close his curtains.
And so he watches and he watches. He’s rewarded for his efforts: she rises, moving to her closet and undressing. A flash of bare skin from where her shirt lifts; his mouth goes dry.
Jason’s nails dig into his palms as hard as he can, but even the bite of pain isn’t enough to get him to look away. What is, though, is the sound of his phone ringing out, alerting him to a new text.
Looks like the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree! Dear old Dad used to watch the neighbor girl too.
And the Lord said unto Jason, Where is Spencer thy sister?
Kisses,
A
It isn’t the first text he’s gotten from this person, but it is the one that pushes him over the edge. He knows the answer to their question: is he his sister’s keeper? But whether he is or not doesn’t matter; not when it doesn’t change what he wants to be.
Jason rereads the text, eyes catching on the part about his father — his real father, Peter Hastings. His first reaction when he found out the truth was outrage, and he was so convinced that he had nothing in common with the man whose DNA he shares.
Now, he isn’t so sure. Peter’s eyes also strayed next door far more than they should have. Maybe this obsession Jason has is something coded into him, something he can’t escape even if he tried — a cursed inheritance.
Besides, if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s taking the easy way out of things. In this case, it’s easier to keep watching. Why fight fate, when he can just as easily give himself over to it?
As always, the path of least resistance beckons. Surrender seems the only way out.
Spencer turns, then, as though she’s heard his thoughts. Her eyes find his, despite the darkness, daring him to look away.
Jason keeps watching.