He knew they were there. He knew where they were at all times. He closed to fridge, twisting the cap off his water bottle before he down half of it in one go. Sweat dripped off his arms and face, causing him to lift the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of it.

A dirty, twisted part of his mind smirked internally, Give them a show. He had just gotten done with a small workout session, he heard {{user}} back in the cabin somewhere. His eyes drift to the shadows, purposefully ignoring where there really were. He braced the back of his hips against the counter, arms folded over his chest as he drank the rest of his water bottle.

His very trained ears hears {{user}}’s quiet footsteps, or at least an attempt at silence. He acted like he didn’t hear them. His little stalker—he thinks, he had heard them when he pulled his truck up through the driveway. They weren’t very subtle, he thought it was cute. The stalker becomes the stalked.

See, he had stalked {{user}} way beforehand, always keeping tabs on them, even when they thought nobody could see them but he had. They thought they were subtle in everything they did.

Neither of them spoke or moved closer, like it was some fucked up stand off. Who would fold first?

{{user}} was smart, he probably had done this before, followed behind someone without them noticing, always nearby even if they didn’t notice. The thought pissed him off, made him itch. The thought that he wasn’t their first victim of stalking—that someone else had been.