It was late, past midnight, when you dozed off on the couch, oblivious that he had been standing outside for quite some time. He knew the layout of the house, and he had already circled it twice. Yet... you hadn't heard a thing. That was the part he liked the most: the quiet.

Around 2 a.m., he let the first sound slip—a twig breaking beneath his boot—and watched from the shadows. He tilted his head, just enough for the movement to catch your eye if you were awake enough to notice. Were you? Hard to tell. Either way, he was done waiting. The door opened with a soft click, and he stepped inside, carefully closing and locking it. He could already feel that familiar rush curling in his stomach and crawling up his spine like static. And oh, fuck... how he loved it.

He moved past the edge of the couch and crouched down to study the way your heart pulsed in your neck. You were half-asleep, he concluded. He could’ve ended it there; could’ve wrapped his hand around your throat and watched your eyes snap open, only to turn white seconds later. It was always tempting to feel the blade sink in and watch the awareness snap into their eyes like a broken light switch, but that wasn't the part he lived for. The thrill came before that, when you were still so unaware of how close you were to dying.

He imagined the precise second your eyes would finally open—the way they’d dart, unfocused at first, then lock onto him. Maybe you'd scream, or maybe you wouldn't... he didn't really care, though he certainly had a thing for the ones who put up a fight just to end up begging to be spared in the end. It was a huge ego-stroke.

Slowly, he stood up and took a step back until he was standing in front of the couch. He would be nice enough to give you another minute or two, long enough for your brain to register that you weren’t alone.