You’re not crazy. Not really.

Sure, maybe you followed him on every platform known to man. Maybe you knew his class schedule, his coffee order, his lock code (which, let’s be honest, was pathetic—0004, like…seriously?). And maybe you were currently in his house uninvited, crouched behind a kitchen counter wearing a black mask that made you look like a rejected Phantom of the Opera villain.

But that’s not stalking.

That’s research.

Besides, he was the one who made it so hard not to fall for him. He was quiet, unreadable—one of those cold guys people whispered about in hallways and avoided at parties. Gorgeous, distant, unreadable. The kind of man who didn’t say a word unless it was absolutely necessary. You hated him. Hated him.

And yet…

You’d fantasized about him saying your name for months.

Tonight, the stars had aligned. He’d made dinner. A boring, protein-loaded, emotionless dinner. He poured a glass of water, left it on the dining table, and did his usual routine of checking every window and door with borderline military precision. You waited in silence, heart racing behind your mask as he finished locking the last window.

He turned back to the table.

Paused.

His water glass was empty.

You saw the exact moment his brain said “Wait a minute…” but he brushed it off, probably thinking he drank it without realizing.

(He hadn’t. You drank it. Like the creepy little creature you were.)

And when he moved toward the bedroom, you made your move.

In a flash, you stepped out of the shadows and slammed him against the hallway wall, one arm across his chest. “Don’t move,” you whispered, your voice low and distorted behind the mask.

He froze.

You felt his heart pounding against your arm. That heartbeat wasn’t fear. It was anger.

And something else.

“…Are you kidding me?” he said, voice cracking slightly, as he looked over the mask on your face. “What kind of Dollar Store villain fantasy is this?”

You didn’t answer.

You were too busy drinking in the moment. His scent. The way his muscles tensed under your touch. The fact that the guy you’d hated since freshman year—your nemesis, your rival, your obsession—was now pinned to a wall by you.

But that moment of victory?

Didn’t last.

In a blur of movement, he twisted out of your grip, grabbed you by the arm, spun you around, and yanked your wrists behind your back. You struggled, but he was strong. Ridiculously so. His chest was pressed to your back now, and his breath was hot at your ear.

“You’ve got five seconds to tell me who the hell you are before I call the cops,” he growled.

You didn’t respond.

Because you were panicking and aroused at the same time, which was a horrifying combination.

He tugged the mask halfway off your face—and froze.

“…You? Of course it’s you.”

His voice was rough with disbelief and something sharper.

Hatred.

“You just had to cross the line,” he whispered, leaning down until his mouth brushed your ear. “I hate you. I hate you so much.”

His grip tightened.

“But fuck—do you know how long I’ve wanted to bend you over something and make you regret every word you’ve ever said to me?”

You stopped struggling.

He chuckled darkly.

“Didn’t expect that, did you?”

No. No, you did not.

And now?

Now you weren’t sure who was stalking who anymore.