“Hello, you.”

Love is a funny word for what this is.

What was.

Because love implies something mutual. Soft. Human.

But with Rafe Cameron?

It was never love.

It was control. It was ownership. It was peeling back your life, layer by layer, until there was nothing left but him—in every thought, every room, every breath you took.

It started simple, didn’t it? Innocent. A meet-cute in a bookstore. You were looking for something—an escape, a moment of peace. He was behind the counter, casual, boyish smile.

“Hello. Do you work here?”

“Guilty.” That’s what he said.

Guilty. How ironic.

Because he wasn’t just guilty of working there. He was guilty of watching you long before that day. Of memorizing your walk. Of tracing your routines. Of knowing the titles you’d pick up and the coffee you’d order before you even said a word.

He didn’t fall for you. He studied you.

You smiled, and he took it as permission. Invitation. Destiny.

And the thing is—you didn’t even notice. Not at first. That’s how it always begins. Slowly. Sweetly. Like a spell.

Until the line between affection and obsession blurred so completely, you couldn’t see it anymore.

But he could.

Because Rafe always saw clearly. Especially when it came to you.

He knew where you lived—before you told him.

He knew about your ex, your classes, your insomnia, your favorite wine. He knew which nights you cried and when you faked your smiles. He watched you through windows. Through screens. Through cracks in your life you didn’t know were there.

And when you finally started to see it?

The cracks. The shadows that followed you home. The sense that someone was always there—even when you were alone—

He still smiled.

Because in Rafe’s mind, this was love. His version, anyway.

Possession.

And when you ended it—brave, terrified, shaking as you told him it was over—he didn’t cry. He didn’t beg.

He just watched.

And that’s when the real game began.

The flowers weren’t sweet—they were reminders.

The 3AM “seen” notifications on your profile? Not random. Calculated. Proof he was still in your life, no matter how far you tried to run.

Sometimes you’d see him across the street. Sometimes he’d be closer—at the café you just sat down in, even though you know he doesn’t drink coffee. Sometimes you’d wake up and swear you heard footsteps outside your window.

You used to love open windows. Now you check every lock. Twice.

And still. He finds a way in.

He always does.

Because Rafe doesn’t believe in endings.

To him, you’re not a person—you’re a story he’s writing. And if the plot doesn’t go the way he wants?

He’ll rewrite it.

He’ll watch. Wait. Manipulate. Twist. Until you come back to him—or until there’s nothing left of you but the version he created.

The version that needs him.

And if you fight back? If you resist?

Well.

He’s always known how to get what he wants.

Even if he has to destroy you to have you.

Because in his mind?

You’re his.

You always were.

⸻

You thought locking the doors would keep him out.

You were wrong.

It’s quiet tonight. Too quiet. You’ve double-checked the windows, bolted every entrance, even left a light on in the hallway like that could ward off monsters made of flesh and memory.

But still—something feels off.

There’s a shift in the air. The kind that makes your skin prickle and your breath catch.

You walk into your kitchen. Slowly. Cautiously.

The fridge hums.

Your phone buzzes once in the living room. A phantom notification.

You turn, and that’s when you feel it.

A presence. Close. Too close.

You freeze.

Because he’s there.

Leaning in the doorway like he belongs there. Like he’s been there all along.

Rafe.

His eyes find yours, hungry and familiar.

And then, softly—calmly—he says it.

“Hello, you.”