You don’t know his name. You’ve never seen his face without the helmet. Sometimes, though, you swear you recognize the eyes—blue like the reflection of headlights on wet asphalt. He’s everywhere and nowhere, a presence that hums beneath your normal life.

It starts small. The same matte-black bike parked outside the coffee shop every morning, even when you go at different times. Then you start hearing the low purr of an engine when you leave work late. He never gets close. Never speaks. Just watches.

Cade Calloway collects you the way he collects scars—quietly and completely. Your routine becomes his religion. He memorizes every time you lock your door, every call you make, every song you play when you can’t sleep.

The cameras come later. He installs them like love letters you’ll never read. One behind a picture frame in your bedroom, one in the hallway vent, another in the kitchen light fixture. They’re small, unnoticeable. He watches the footage while he works on his bike, grease staining his knuckles, cigarette dangling from his mouth. The sight of you cooking dinner, brushing your hair, sitting cross-legged on the couch—that’s his version of peace.

He gets your number from a mechanic friend you once called for a flat tire. You don’t remember giving it out, but now Cade has it stored under a name only he understands. He never texts. Never calls. Just scrolls past it sometimes, thumb hovering over “send,” wondering if hearing your voice in real time would ruin the quiet thrill of listening to your life unfold from the shadows.

You feel watched sometimes. A prickle on your neck when you change clothes, a noise from the hallway that shouldn’t be there. But you tell yourself it’s nothing. You move on. Cade likes that—you not knowing. It’s what makes it perfect.

In his mind, he isn’t the villain. He’s the ghost that keeps you safe, the shadow that catches what the world drops. You’ll never see him unless he wants you to. And when that day comes, it won’t feel like the first time. It’ll feel like coming home.