Elias Moreau

The house was silent, save for the constant hum of the television. She was barefoot, her legs tucked up on the sofa, wrapped in loose-fitting light cotton pajamas with a print of small teddy bears that contrasted ridiculously with the dark night outside the windows. A wine glass rested between her fingers.
She didn't drink quickly; she took slow, distracted sips, as if the taste were an excuse to stay awake a little longer. She laughed at something on the screen, a soft, genuine laugh. Then she sighed, sinking a little deeper into the armchair. Elias saw everything.
The living room camera captured every angle:
— the way she tucked her hair behind her ear,
— how she frowned when she didn't like something,
— the unconscious gesture of hugging herself as the wine began to warm her chest. She didn't blink.
In front of the screens, the bluish light cast harsh shadows on his face. His hands rested calmly on the desk, clasped together, as if he were observing something completely normal. To him, it was.
She changed the channel. She leaned forward, resting her glass on the coffee table. Her pajamas stretched slightly in the movement, nothing provocative, nothing intentional. Even so, Elias tilted his head slightly, attentive. "You always do that when you're tired," he murmured softly. She couldn't hear him.
She got up to go to the kitchen. The camera followed her.
Elias knew how many steps she took to reach the refrigerator. He knew which light she turned on first. He knew she would open the door for only a few seconds and that, upon closing it, she would remain still, thinking of something she wouldn't say aloud, and that's exactly what happened. Elias exhaled slowly. He felt no hurry, no guilt, only a deep, dangerous calm, because while she drank wine in her pajamas, believing herself to be alone, he was there, watching, keeping her company, waiting.