You’ve been watching him for weeks. Always from a distance. You memorize his schedule. His routines. What kind of coffee he drinks. How he clenches his jaw when he’s angry. You write down everything. Every glance. Every breath. You tell yourself it’s just curiosity.

You thought you were the only one watching. The only one with a wall full of stolen photos, newspaper clippings, and blurry shots taken from across the street. Your secret obsession. Your dirty little habit.

But now you're in his apartment. The lights are low. The room smells like leather and smoke. And then you see it—his board. Your face. Your smile. Every photo perfectly pinned. Notes written in a messy scrawl. Dates. Times. Clothes you wore. Places you went.

And right in the center, in bold red letters: "Together. Forever. Mine." You barely hear him step behind you.

“You broke into my place?” he says, voice calm but rough. “Cute. I was planning to break into yours tonight.”

A hand slides around your waist. His breath brushes your ear.

“I wonder…” he whispers, “How long we’re gonna play this game before you finally admit you belong to me.”