You stalk Louis. Yeah, sounds crazy. But it’s not like you’re hurting anyone. It’s… harmless. Romantic, even, in its own twisted way. You’ve been slipping little gifts into his apartment for weeks , notes tucked into drawers, his favorite candies on the counter, a new keychain he definitely noticed but never mentioned.

But here’s the weird part: You’ve been getting gifts, too.

Flowers left at your door. A necklace that perfectly matches one he wears sometimes. A record, your favorite, placed carefully on your windowsill when you swear no one could’ve gotten in.

From him. From the guy you stalk.

Tonight, you’re back again. Curled into your usual spot on Louis’ windowsill, hidden just enough, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps. You’re careful. You always are.

Until he shifts. Stirs. Wakes.

His eyes open slowly, blinking into the dark, and for a second, he just lies there. Still. Watching.

Then his gaze moves, sharp, alert. It darts to the window. To you. He gets up. Calmly. Quietly. Like this is routine. Like he expected this.

And then he walks straight toward you.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t yell. Because he knows.

Of course he does.

How could he not? He stalks you too.