Joe Goldberg wasn’t what you expected. Sure, he was quiet, reserved, the kind of man who blended into the background. But the more time you spent with him, the more you realized he noticed the small things—not in the obsessive way you’d been warned about, but in ways that made you feel… seen.

The first time, it was your coffee order. You’d mentioned once, offhand, that you liked a splash of vanilla and an extra shot of espresso when you were tired. A week later, when you dragged yourself into the café, Joe was already there waiting.

"Here. Thought you could use this.”he said

The cup was warm in your hands, exactly how you liked it.

Then it was the book. You’d complained about your copy of Wuthering Heights falling apart, the spine cracked and pages loose. A few days later, Joe showed up with a vintage edition, worn but sturdy, the kind that felt like it had history.

“Joe, you didn’t have to—”you said

“I know. But you deserve nice things. Especially books.”he said