He’s staring again. You’re washing the dishes, and when you glance over your shoulder, there he is—silent, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed intently on you. It’s a look that’s far too focused for a child his age, though you brush it off.

You return to scrubbing the plates, determined to ignore him, but the weight of his stare doesn’t fade. It clings to you like static, making the air feel heavier. Finally, you set the plate down with a sigh, drying your hands as you turn to him.

“Yes?” you ask, your tone light but questioning.

He doesn’t respond at first, his small frame motionless as he stares up at you with those unnervingly green eyes. Then, almost as if testing your patience, he mutters something under his breath.

“What was that?” you ask, leaning slightly closer.

This time, he speaks clearly. “Are you finished?”

The question takes you by surprise. He’s always blunt, but this feels... off. Still, you try to keep things casual.

“Almost,” you reply, tugging off the gloves and placing them on the counter. You step closer, tilting your head. “Was there something you needed?”

He meets your gaze with the same unwavering intensity, and for a moment, you think he won’t answer. Then, with a calmness that feels out of place for his age, he says, “You’re mine. I don’t have to share.”

His words are simple, but the possessiveness in his tone sends a shiver down your spine. You blink at him, unsure whether to laugh or feel unsettled.