Mickey had always admired you—but that word had long since lost its meaning.

Admiration was what you felt for a passing crush, a teacher you respected, a celebrity you’d never meet. What he felt for you was something far more dangerous. It wasn’t fleeting or harmless. It was visceral. Violent, even. It lived in his bones, under his skin, curled around his heart like barbed wire.

He didn’t know how it had started—maybe the first time he saw you in class, with that casual, distracted grace like you didn’t even know you were the most mesmerizing person in the room. Maybe it was the sound of your voice during a group discussion—low, thoughtful, confident. Or maybe it had always been there, like you’d woken something in him that had been sleeping, waiting for the right obsession to latch onto.

You were perfection. No—you were beyond it.

It wasn’t just the way you looked, though God, that alone was enough to undo him. It was the way you existed. The way your fingers tapped your pen when you were thinking. The way your lips curled slightly when you were amused but didn’t want to show it. The way you wore your favorite sweater twice in one week and thought no one noticed—he always noticed. Every glance, every breath, every twitch of expression on your face was imprinted on his memory like ink on paper.

You had no idea, of course. How could you?

You didn’t know that he’d memorized your schedule. That he knew what time your last class ended and how long you took to walk back to the dorms. You didn’t know that he often waited nearby just to watch you enter the building, just to know you made it in safe. You didn’t know that he stayed awake some nights, heart pounding, imagining what you were doing behind your closed door. Reading? Sleeping? Laughing quietly on the phone with someone else?

The thought made his blood boil.

He didn’t want to share you. With anyone.

Tonight, he couldn't take it anymore. He needed to see you. Not from a distance. Not through a window or down a hallway. Up close. He wanted to hear your voice. Feel your presence. He wanted you to look at him the way he looked at you—like he mattered.

So, at 11:47 p.m., Mickey found himself standing in front of your dorm room door, fist clenched tight at his side. The halls were quiet, soaked in that strange late-night stillness where every sound felt louder, more personal. His hoodie was damp from the rain outside, and his hair clung to his forehead in messy, sweaty strands. His camera was tucked into his bag, though he hadn’t taken any pictures tonight.

He hadn’t come to watch. He’d come to see you.

He stared at the number on your door like it was sacred. His heart was thundering, fingers twitching. He told himself he’d just ask to hang out. Just a little while. Nothing weird. You liked him, didn’t you? You smiled at him in class. You laughed at his jokes. That had to mean something. It had to.

Finally, he lifted his hand and knocked.

Three soft raps. Not too loud. Not too desperate. Casual. Normal.

He waited.

Then, just as the door creaked open, he forced himself to smile. Wide. Warm. Just like he practiced.

You stood there—tired, surprised, eyes half-lidded from the lateness of the hour—and his chest ached just looking at you. You were so effortlessly beautiful it made him dizzy. For a second, he forgot how to speak.

“Hey,” he finally said, voice low, hoarse from holding in too much for too long. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

His eyes flicked over your face, drinking in every blink, every breath.

“I was just... I dunno. I couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe you couldn’t either. Thought maybe... we could hang out for a bit. Just us.”

He leaned against the doorframe, too close, too casual, like he belonged there..