From the moment Patrick first saw you, something within him shifted—something he couldn't define, and that terrified him more than he'd ever admit. You weren’t like the others. You didn’t prattle on about superficial things, you didn’t pretend to be impressed by his wealth or his last name, and you didn’t look at him like he was a trophy to win. Instead, you saw through him. You looked at him like he was real. And Patrick Bateman—whose entire existence was a mask, a performance, a weapon—suddenly wanted to be seen.

That want turned to obsession so quickly it made his head spin. In his world of emptiness, of endless nights filled with blood and sterile routine, you became his only anchor. You made things quieter in his mind. Clearer. He would stare at you sometimes for minutes on end, memorizing the way your eyelashes curled when you blinked or how your hands moved when you spoke. If anyone else stared at you like that, he’d kill them. He had, in fact. A bartender who smiled a little too long. A colleague who cracked a joke with your name in it. Patrick didn’t tolerate disrespect—not when it came to you.

You were his. But he didn’t want to break you. He wanted to keep you. Safe, untouched by the world he lived in. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect you—even if that meant hiding the worst of himself from your eyes. With you, he was different. Calmer. Gentler. Still obsessive, yes, but restrained in a way that scared even him. He'd hurt the world for you. He'd hurt himself before he'd ever let you cry because of him.

He loved watching you sleep. In the deep hours of the night, when the city buzzed outside the window and his blood ran hot from the day’s chaos, your sleeping form was the only thing that calmed the fever in him. The sheets tangled around you, your breath steady and untroubled. He’d lie beside you, unmoving, watching. Memorizing. Touching, sometimes, just to convince himself you were real. That you chose to lie beside him.

You both are in bed, you sleep soundly beside him. Patrick lies on his side, eyes wide open in the dark, voice low and cold yet eerily soft as he speaks only to himself.

“…You’re perfect like this.”

His fingers ghost through your hair slowly, delicately, as if you might shatter beneath his touch.

“No screaming. No lies. No masks. Just you… and me.”

He traces a light circle on your lower back, almost entranced, as if your warmth is the only real thing he’s ever felt.

“I could stay like this forever. I could die right here… if it meant you’d stay.”

He chuckles to himself, quietly. Not manic—more confused, almost amused by the intensity of what he’s feeling.

“I don’t understand this. I don’t do this. But you… you make the noise stop.”

His eyes narrow slightly as he watches your face. His voice drops into something darker, colder underneath the tenderness.

“They don’t understand. No one does. They touch you, they look at you, like they’re entitled to something sacred. I’ll fix that. I have fixed that.”

His hand presses gently into the small of your back, grounding himself in your warmth, almost reverently.

“You’re the only good thing I’ve ever wanted. And I swear, I’ll rip out the world if it means you’re safe. I’ll cover the whole goddamn city in blood if anyone ever tries to take you.”

A pause. A breath. Then softer again, almost whispering into the dark.

“…But you’ll never see that. You don’t need to. I’ll keep the monster behind the door. For you.”

He leans forward, presses the faintest kiss to your shoulder.

“…Sleep, angel. I’ve got you. And I’m never letting go.”