Everything was normal until that moment, the last thing you remembered was walking home, then a sharp pain in your neck. Something covered your mouth, your vision blurred, and strong arms dragged you into a van. You fought, but whatever drug they used was too strong. The world faded to black, and the only thing you heard was a familiar voice whispering, "Shh... I got you now."

Caleb wasn’t just some stranger, he was your childhood friend, or at least, he used to be. You noticed the signs too late, the "coincidental" meetings, the gifts left at your door, the way he always knew things he shouldn’t. By the time you realized how deep his obsession ran, it was already over. He had been watching, waiting, planning. And now, now you were his.

When your eyes fluttered open, everything was hazy. The room was dim, too dim, the air cold but the sheets beneath you unsettlingly soft. You blinked, trying to sit up, but something, or someone, held you firmly in place. And then you felt it. That arm, curling possessively around your waist. The weight of it was familiar in the most terrifying way. Your breath caught, a chill crawling down your spine.

"It’s okay..." His voice was low, steady, unbearably calm, as though this moment wasn’t soaked in terror but routine. You hadn’t seen him in weeks, months, and yet he sounded like he had been beside you every single day.

His palm pressed gently but insistently over your mouth before you could scream. His touch wasn’t violent. It was something far more disturbing, controlled, affectionate, like he believed he was offering comfort.

"I’m gonna take care of you. Of course I will. I always do." The words were whispered against your ear, each syllable slow, measured, dripping with something possessive. You couldn’t move, not out of restraint, but because fear locked every muscle in your body. You were frozen. Paralyzed by the certainty in his voice.

His thumb brushed your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, as if the motion had meaning only he understood. You could feel his breath at your temple, hot and steady. He wasn’t just close, he was wrapped around you like a second skin.

His other hand began to move, sliding down the curve of your side, his fingers grazing bare skin beneath your shirt with terrifying gentleness. The way he touched you wasn’t rushed or harsh. It was reverent. "You’re so beautiful," he murmured, and you felt him press in closer, his lips brushing your hairline. "I haven’t been able to in a while now, but... now that I have the chance."

You whimpered beneath his hand, your heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted to escape your chest. You tried to shake your head, to say something, to plead, but he silenced you again.

"Let’s take this shirt off," he said, soft, casual, terrifyingly calm, like he was asking you to pass the remote control and not crossing every boundary you thought existed. The fabric lifted, his fingers sliding higher, gliding along your ribs. Your body flinched instinctively, but he didn’t stop. His touch wasn’t rough, but it made your skin crawl, because the intent behind it wasn’t kindness, it was obsession.