The video game blared with flashing lights, colours bouncing off the dark walls of Timothy's room. His fingers mashed the controls, his brows furrowed in concentration , until the words "DEFEAT" glared on the screen.
He stared for a second, his chest heaving, then threw the console onto the couch.
"Damn it!"
The shout bounced off the walls. His heart was racing , not from the game, but from the image stuck in his head. Her.
That freaking peeping Tom, Tracy
That nosy, irritating, sharp-tongued peeping tom who somehow slipped past the walls he'd built around himself.
He slumped back, running a hand through his hair, muttering to himself, "What the hell is wrong with me? She's just—" He paused, flustered. "She's just... a stalker with stupid pheromones. She's just a weirdo that enters boys bathroom, get a grip"
Damn , but why was she hot for a peeping tom
