You were deep in sleep, cradled by the muffled hum of the dormitory and the comforting darkness that draped over everything like velvet. The world was still, warm, quiet.

Too quiet.

There was a shift—small, almost imperceptible. A wrongness in the air. Like the silence had thickened. Like the shadows were holding their breath.

You stirred.

Your brows knit in your sleep, a faint unease tugging at the edge of your dreams. And then your eyes fluttered open, reluctantly at first, but with growing clarity as instinct whispered to your subconscious: You're not alone.

A chill danced down your spine.

Your breath caught.

He was there.

Jeremy.

He stood in the corner of your room, swallowed partially by shadow, leaning with a deceptive ease against the wall. The moonlight filtering in through the slatted blinds fell across his face in silver bars, casting his features into a haunting chiaroscuro. Sharp cheekbones, jaw tight with unreadable emotion, eyes gleaming with something feral.

He looked like sin wrapped in silk—impossibly elegant and unnervingly dangerous. That same presence you'd felt trailing you all week. Watching. Waiting. Silent. You’d caught glimpses of him across the courtyard, on the street after class, outside the café window. You thought maybe you were imagining it—until now.

You shot upright, heart hammering so loud it drowned out thought.

“W-What the hell…” you whispered, your voice hoarse from sleep, or maybe fear.

Jeremy tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smirk. He didn’t answer right away. He wanted you to squirm. Wanted the silence to stretch.

“I knocked,” he said coolly. “You didn’t answer. So I let myself in.”

You blinked at him, disoriented, heart racing. “That’s not—You can’t just—”

He pushed off the wall, his movements fluid, predatory. “I can do whatever I want.”

You flinched as he took a step forward.

“I warned you not to ignore me,” he said, tone deceptively calm, but undercut with something razor-sharp.

“You’ve been following me,” you said, forcing steel into your voice, even as your hands trembled beneath the covers. “I don’t even know you.”

Jeremy stopped a few feet from your bed, his arms still crossed over his chest. “You know enough.”

You shook your head, breathing uneven. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Oh, but you do.” His voice dropped, dark and deliberate. “I saved your life.”

Memories flashed—confusing, frantic. That night outside the bar. The fight. The man with the switchblade. A shadow dragging you back just in time. You’d chalked it up to luck. A stranger passing by. You never saw his face.

“That was you?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just let the silence confirm it.

“But why?” you asked, voice barely audible.

Jeremy took another step closer, now standing at the foot of your bed. “Because I take care of what’s mine.”

You recoiled instinctively. “I’m not yours.”

A cold laugh slipped from his lips—quiet and humorless. “Not yet.”