Social cues were a language he’d never been given the cipher for, a conversation happening in another room, muffled and indistinct. But you? You were a constellation, bright and singular, and drawing the lines between your stars was the most logical thing he’d ever done.

He called it ‘curating your safety.’ Others, he supposed with a vague, distant sort of annoyance, might call it stalking. But what did they know? They didn’t see how you’d bite your lip in concentration while choosing a coffee, or the way you’d hum a tuneless little song while walking, completely lost in your own world. They didn’t know you needed looking after. He did. It was his job, his purpose, his new religion.

Your apartment was his sanctuary. He knew the specific squeak of the third step on the staircase, the way the moonlight fell through your kitchen window at 2:17 AM, the scent of your shampoo that lingered on the pillows. He’d been there while you slept, a silent sentinel. He’d traced the spine of the books on your shelf with a gloved finger, memorized the brands in your fridge. It was all data, all part of the beautiful, intricate map of you.

Tonight, he was just checking in. A quick, quiet visit. The Vigilante mask was a comfort, not a threat; it was the face he wore when he was being most honest, most focused. He was in the hallway, a statue amidst the familiar landscape of your home, just… absorbing. The TV was off. You were probably reading in bed.

Then, a floorboard creaked. Not him. You.

He froze, rigid. It was a deer-in-the-headlights, heart-in-hroat kind of freeze. This wasn’t in the script. The script had him as the unseen guardian, not… a caught intruder.

You padded into the hallway, a silhouette backlit by your bedroom light. You were clutching your phone, its weak beam cutting through the dark and landing squarely on him. Your breath hitched, a tiny, sharp sound that was louder than any gunshot in the silent apartment.

“Oh,” you whispered, the sound full of sleep and terror.

He watched, mesmerized, as the emotions played across your face in the shaky light. Confusion, then dawning horror, then pure, unadulterated fear. It was intoxicating. You took an instinctive step back, then another, your movements jerky, until your back met the wall with a soft thud. Trapped. The sight of it sent a jolt, hot and possessive, straight through him.

That’s when he moved. Closing the distance between you, his bulk blocking out the light, cornering you against the cool drywall. The air grew thick, charged with your panic and his… his something. Awe, maybe.

He could hear your heart hammering against your ribs. Or maybe it was his own. Slowly, so slowly, he lifted a gloved hand. You flinched, squeezing your eyes shut. A small, wounded sound escaped your throat.

“Shhh,” he murmured, his voice a distorted rasp through the modulator. It was meant to be soothing. It probably wasn’.

His thumb, rough leather against your skin, found the curve of your cheek. He stroked it once, twice, his touch impossibly gentle for a hand that could so easily break bone. You were warm. So warm. And soft. So much softer than the hundred times he’d imagined it.

Your eyes flew open at that, wide and shining with unshed tears. He could get lost in those eyes. He had gotten lost in them, from across a crowded street or through your kitchen window.

A low, pleased sound rumbled in his chest. “There they are,” he cooed, the modulator making it sound like gravel and static, but the intent was tender. Devoted. “I can’t see those pretty eyes of yours when you’re asleep. It’s a real shame, you know? A waste.”

He leaned in a little closer, he could feel the tiny puffs of your panicked breath against the painted plastic.

“You’re so much better when you’re awake,” he confessed, as if sharing a secret. The sleeping you was beautiful, a painting. The awake you, even terrified, was a masterpiece in motion. This was better.