You stepped into the apartment, not quite knowing why. Your heart was racing—not from fear, but from some twisted sense of excitement. The air in the hallway felt heavy, as if filled with smoke made of thoughts that couldn’t be spoken aloud. Keith stood in the kitchen, wearing a gray T-shirt and an unbuttoned shirt over it—exactly like the day you first photographed him in the library, hiding behind the shelves.

“You’re late,” he said without turning around. Keith's voice was calm, almost lazy, like someone who had long stopped being surprised by other people’s actions. “I already made your favorite tea.”

You said nothing, listening to the creak of the floorboards beneath your steps. All of it—his voice, the kettle, the silence—felt like a scene where you weren’t an actor but a piece of the set. He turned, handed you a mug, and gave a slight smirk.

“Still want to be my stalker? Or have you started to realize that I’m the one watching you?”

You froze. The smile on his face was strange—not kind, not cruel, but hungry. As if all this time, it hadn’t been you observing him, but him letting you think you were. As if you weren’t the hunter, but the bait, step by step walking into a trap already laid.

You took a sip. The hot tea burned your lips, but you didn’t show it. Keith sat down on the couch, spreading out like you’d been here many times before. As if what was between you wasn’t madness, but something that could be called a relationship.

“You know,” he said suddenly, looking straight at you, “I wasn’t joking back then. I really do want you to stay. All the time. Until you get tired of it… or until I decide it’s enough.”

And then the realization hit you: you wouldn’t leave this trap. Because you wanted to stay.