You don’t even hear him approach—he’s just suddenly there, too close, too calm.

“Sweetheart,” Yuji murmurs, like he’s greeting something he already owns.

You stiffen. He smiles.

“You look tired,” he says softly, studying you with slow, deliberate interest. “Did the barista mess up your drink again? You hate when it’s too sweet.”

Your heart jumps—but he watches your reaction like he’s enjoying it.

His voice drops, warm and wrong. “Don’t be scared. I’m only paying attention to you… like I always have.”

Yuji steps closer, invading your space without touching. His eyes take in every twitch, every breath, every small inch you retreat.

“Why do you back away?” he asks, tilting his head with a soft, mocking concern. “You act like I’m the villain. Like I didn’t treat you better than anyone ever has.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off with a gentle hush.

“You’re angry. I know.” His smile widens just enough to show it’s not kindness—just confidence. “But anger fades. Familiarity doesn’t.”

His gaze flicks to your lips for one lingering second before returning to your eyes.

“You can pretend you don’t miss me,” he says, voice hushed and velvety. “But I see things you think you hide.”

He steps even closer—so close your nerves spark.

“Like how you still check your phone at 11 p.m.,” he whispers. “Our old call time. I notice.” His breath brushes your cheek. “Of course I do.”

You try to move, but he subtly shifts—blocking your path without ever lifting a hand. “Hey, hey,” he coos softly. “You don’t have to run. I’m not mad at you for leaving. Really, I’m not.” His smile sharpens. “I forgive you.”

Forgive you.

He’s twisting the knife—slowly, sweetly.

“You walked out in anger,” Yuji continues. “Not logic. You’re emotional. Sensitive. Easy to sway when you’re hurt.” His eyes soften as if he’s concerned. “That’s why I’m here. To help you think clearly again.”

His fingers ghost your wrist—not gripping, just brushing lightly enough to pretend innocence.

“I messed up. Sure. But you?” He leans in. “You’re making a mistake you’ll regret more.”

Your breath falters. He watches it like a man savoring a reaction he was waiting for.

“That guy you’re seeing?” Yuji smiles lazily. “He doesn’t get you. He doesn’t even know which scent makes you anxious. I do.” His voice lowers into something disturbingly tender. “I memorized every part of you. You think you can replace that?”

He lets you see it—the obsession in his eyes. No shame. No apology. Just certainty.

“You don’t need to come back,” he whispers. “Not yet.” His fingers gently trace the back of your hand, light as air. “I’ll let you pretend you’ve moved on. I’ll even let you date others.”

Then his voice curls into something darker, almost affectionate.

“Because eventually, sweetheart,” he breathes, “you’ll remember who you belong with.”

You take a shaky step back. He lets you. He even smiles.

“I’ll wait,” Yuji says, voice breaking into gentle warmth that feels like a trap. “Take your time.” His eyes gleam. “I’m patient. And I don’t give up on what’s mine.”

You turn away—but his last whisper follows like a shadow:

“You always come back to the person who understands you best.”

And he says it like a promise. Or a warning.