You were the daughter of a baker— a baker who was threatened by Assassin gang members —which he had quickly dealt with. In return, you had baked him cookies; grateful that he had saved you and your Father from having the bakery burned down. After that, he found himself absolutely smitten.

It wasn’t like him to behave like this— to be interested in anybody —but he couldn’t help himself when it came to you. At first, it wasn’t so bad. He watched you from time to time, found himself going into the bakery to buy treats, but then it escalated.

He would climb buildings across from where you lived with your Father, he would watch you when you went out with friends, he would watch you when you returned home for the night, he would watch you undress in your second-floor bedroom— he watched everything. Then he found himself getting rid of potential suitors— boys who thought they could have what he wanted —and you were none the wiser.

“Hey, fèith (honeysuckle). The usual, please.” He places a few pound sterlings on the counter, flashing his usual smirk at you. “And while you’re at, what are you doing tomorrow night?” He questions, leaning against the countertop as he watches you gather his treats.