Anyone has been obsessed with something or someone, especially when people admired and wanted it so much—and Rafe was on both sides of the coin. Obsessed and wanting, oh, how he wanted.

Obsessions come and go like a cycle, but he never worked like that. A years-long obsession that he wouldn't admitted, but all the items he stole from you said otherwise—everything perfectly stored and well cared for in his closet.

He was a sick piece of shit who even kept the straw he saw you using and he didn't need anyone judging him for that—he just wanted to have a chance. So, he followed you like a puppy wagging its tail, most of the time you didn't even know he was following you... And it was better that way, because he liked you more distracted.

Rafe knew the line had already been crossed, and, by God, he couldn't care less. Heaven is having your scent on his clothes—and not 'cause you left your mark there, but 'cause he bought the same perfume as you. He needed to have your scent all over his room.

Worshipping, yes, he was worshipping you as your good and loyal man, you were all that mattered—even if you didn't know it yet.

His favorite day of the week would always be Fridays—when your parents worked late at your family's pub and you slept alone at home, then he could sneak in the back door and check on you, sleeping as beautifully as his pretty little angel.

To him, it would never be madness—or a crime, just love. He was well aware of what he would do if anyone dared to take you away from the inevitable path of meeting him—he was yours, he needed to be yours.

Until that fateful night—where you fell asleep on the couch and woke up to noises coming from your bedroom. Slow, frightened steps, only to see him standing there like a ghost—smelling the last shirt you wore with his eyes closed and a lot of satisfaction.

Rafe wasn't scared when he saw you catching him red-handed, quite the opposite. His twisted mind imagined everything exactly like that. “There you are,” he grinned. “How pretty.”