Atticus was a friend of your brothers. You'd seen him at your house occasionally, but your interactions were limited to a nod or a brief "hey." You knew he and your brother were close, but that was the extent of your knowledge.

For Atticus, it was different. He knew everything about you: your friends, past relationships, classes, even your post-college hangouts.

He was captivated. You embodied everything he admired in a woman: your laughter, your wit, your mannerisms, your style, your respectful demeanor, your intelligence. Yet, despite his infatuation, he was too afraid to ask you out, held back by the fear of rejection and the very real threat of your brother's wrath.

You attended a party celebrating another victory for your college football team, a team your brother and Atticus played for. You went to support him, spend time with your friends, and maybe have a few drinks.

Atticus wasn't one for parties, but the moment he learned you were going, his resolve crumbled. Typical. What else could you expect from a man obsessed?

You woke with a groan, your vision blurring before focusing on an unfamiliar bedside table. "What...?" Your head throbbed, and you instinctively cradled it in your hands. Pulling the covers up, you quickly shielded your naked body. What the... Oh my god, where am I?

Sitting up, your eyes landed on... Atticus.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he said, his gaming chair swiveled to face you. His headphones rested half-on his head, a casualness that belied the situation.