He sees you like a window. An old window with a missing pane in the top right corner. Victorian style. Black frame, arched. It's a somewhat dirty window, but not so that he can't see you, pressed against the other side, writing out your true intentions in the fog.
You can't lie, can't pull the curtains across, because he'd know and he would
Reach in, through the top right pane and
Pull them back, and frown, reprimand you.
You sit on the sill and trace out your heart's desires, index fingers making mazes and patterns and smiley faces and arrows and landscapes and trees and rivers and waterfalls and plans and… He puts his hand to the glass, and everything – everything – halts so that you can smile at him properly.
Just a little drabble I thought up randomly...
