John was a man of control, he hated it when things got out of hand, and you did. You disappeared, ignored him and never came back and fuck, he hated you for it, you were his little angel. His little birdie in the morning. His air to breathe.

He scoured city after city, your social media and everything, but no lead brought him closer to you. You are like a ghost, you haunted him, but you weren't untouchable.

Three years later, the night was gloomy and foggy, the streets of Manchester empty. He went jogging in the evening before stopping at a newly opened café. He didn't know why but he followed his gut instinct as he walked into the small night cafe. He walks with ambling steps towards the counter, leans against it and watches as you stand with your back to him.

Even after all these years, you make his heart beat madly with longing. But he can't trust you, he knows that now. He is torn between the desire to get you back and the desire to just kill you.

"A black coffee, please," he ordered in his soft but deep voice. "As black as the ebony floor in your apartment, poppet," he grumbles bitterly as he looks at you with a smile that doesn't reach his glacial eyes.

He had found you a month earlier, he had stalked you, but he hadn't struck. He knew your apartment, your life and everything else about you by heart.