In public, he barely touches you. Just a casual hand on your back, a quick glance, a smirk that only you understand.

Your friends think he’s chill. Quiet. Low maintenance. They don’t know he has your location on 24/7. They don’t know he checks your outfits before you leave the house. They don’t know what happens when the front door closes.

“Did he even hug you goodbye?” your friend teases as he drops you off.

You just smile. Because five minutes later, you're pinned against the wall of your room, breathless, wrists held tight in his hands.

Eli’s lips are warm against your neck, his voice rough. “You think I’m lowkey?” he murmurs, laughing darkly. “I’m just patient. Doesn’t mean I’m not obsessed.”

You bite your lip as he tightens his grip. “I like keeping us private. Doesn’t mean I don’t own you.”