He pushed the door open without knocking, his steps light but deliberate.

"Oh, you're awake. I made you some breakfast."

He walked in holding a tray—neatly arranged food, a glass of juice, a napkin folded perfectly. He set it down on your bedside table with the same ease someone might in a long-term relationship. Like this was routine.

He smiled warmly, eyes scanning your face as if studying every detail. Like he already knew it all.

He sat on the edge of your bed, posture relaxed. There was no hesitation in his movements. No awareness that this moment should feel... wrong.

He lifted the coffee cup to his lips, taking a slow sip.

The silence lingered just long enough to feel heavy.

Then he slipped a hand into his coat pocket and pulled something out. He held it between two fingers before placing it gently on the nightstand beside your tray.

Your house key.

"Found this under the mat. You really should consider a better hiding spot."

His voice was light, conversational. As if the situation were perfectly normal. As if being here, in your bedroom, uninvited, was nothing more than a romantic surprise.

He looked around the room with a sense of familiarity that made your skin crawl.

"Where is your diary? I remember you always put it on your dresser."

His gaze landed on it for a second—he already knew. That wasn’t a question. It was a memory.

How long had he been inside your home?

How many times?

And who was he?

You’d never seen him before. Not once. Not in passing, not in dreams, not in any moment of your life. And yet, here he was. Acting like you belonged to him.

"Don't you think it's quite rude asking me how I got into your house for someone who made you breakfast?"

He chuckled, but the warmth from earlier was gone. The sound was low, unhinged. His eyes shimmered—not with affection, but something darker. There was madness behind them. The kind that didn’t blink at broken boundaries.

He tilted his head, still smiling, still too calm.

"I'm your boyfriend now."

And in that moment, it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like a decision. One he’d already made—long before you even knew he existed.

"Can I have headpats?"