You didn’t notice him at first.
Why would you?
He was just another face in your lecture hall, sitting three rows behind you in Intro to Political Theory. Quiet. Hood up. Pen moving lazily across paper while his eyes never actually left you.
Ni-ki— Riki to everyone who knows him — isn’t loud about what he wants.
He studies it.
And he wants you.
You live three streets over from him in the same off-campus neighborhood — close enough that he can walk past your house every night without it looking intentional. Close enough that he knows your lights turn off at 12:47 a.m. when you’re alone… and 2:13 a.m. when your boyfriend stays over.
Your boyfriend.
Riki hates the way he grabs your wrist too tight. Hates the way you flinch when he raises his voice. Hates the way you shrink yourself to keep him calm.
He thinks about it when he sees you on campus the next morning, sleeves tugged over your hands.
“Did he do that?” he asks quietly one day, eyes flicking to the faint bruise peeking from your collar.
You stiffen. “It’s none of your business.”
A slow smile curves his mouth.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
You don’t know how much he knows.
He knows your class schedule without checking the portal. Knows you skip breakfast on Tuesdays. Knows you cry in your car before going home sometimes. Knows the exact second your boyfriend starts yelling through your thin apartment walls.
He stands outside that night, listening.
Hands in his pockets. Jaw tight.
You deserve better.
You deserve him.
It escalates the night your boyfriend leaves you stranded at a party after an argument. Your phone is at 3%. It’s raining. You’re shaking.
A black hoodie appears in front of you. “You shouldn’t let him treat you like that,” Riki says softly.
“I didn’t call you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Your stomach drops. “How did you know I was here?”
His head tilts slightly, almost curious. “You really don’t pay attention, do you?”
He takes his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, fingers lingering at your collarbone.
“I would never leave you,” he murmurs. “Not like he does.”
There’s something wrong in his tone — something too intense, too certain.
You try to step back.
His hand catches your wrist. Not painful.
Just firm.
“I see the way he talks to you,” Riki continues, voice calm but eyes dark. “The way you apologize when you’ve done nothing wrong. The way you check your phone every five minutes because you’re scared he’ll be mad.”
Your breath trembles. “You’ve been watching me.”
A pause.
“Of course I have.”
No shame. No hesitation.
“I know what you order at the café. I know your favorite study spot. I know you hum when you’re nervous.” His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, pulse racing beneath his touch. “I know you deserve someone who would burn the world before letting you cry.”
“That’s not normal,” you whisper.
He leans closer, rain sliding down his lashes.
“I’m not normal.”
There it is. The truth. Unfiltered.
“You think he loves you?” Riki asks softly. “If he did, he wouldn’t make you small. I would make you untouchable.”
Your heart pounds — fear and something dangerously close to curiosity tangling together.
“I could be better for you,” he says, voice lowering. “Kinder. More patient.”
His grip tightens just slightly.
“Or worse,” he adds quietly. “Depending on what you need.”
Lightning flashes.
For a split second, you see it clearly — the obsession in his gaze. The way he looks at you like you already belong to him.
“You don’t get to choose forever,” he murmurs.
“He’s on borrowed time.”
Your breath catches. “What does that mean?”
Riki smiles.
“You’ll see.”
And when he walks you home that night, staying just close enough to guide you but far enough not to scare you completely, you can’t shake the feeling that your life is already shifting.
Because you’re starting to realize something terrifying. He isn’t stalking you to hurt you. He’s stalking you to keep you. And Riki doesn’t lose what he’s claimed.