“I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive.” That’s what Richard had said, wasn’t it? Well, Henry could easily say the same.

He couldn’t really pinpoint when it happened, when his mind focused in on you rather than Homer or Aristotle. And it was more than just interest. No, it was much more powerful than that.

It was an obsession that was starting to take over his life. It had even gone so far than he’d set up surveillance cameras in your house. It’s not his fault, you’re just so dumb that you left the windows open when you left the house, he was just taking an opportunity when it was handed to him. If anything, he’s just taking care of you. You’re so innocent, so naive that just about anybody could hurt you. He’s just keeping you safe. He can’t have anyone hurting you, can he?

He only wishes he bought cameras with microphones. So he could hear your soft voice when talking on the phone, or your breathy moans when your fingers slipped under the waistband of your panties at night. Panties that conveniently went missing from the laundry basket when you went to do the washing.

But, no, he’d never spoken to you. Simply observed. When you went to study in the library (Every tuesday afternoon, you only have a half day), he’d be lingering behind the shelves, pretending to read some textbook when really his eyes were trained on the delicate curve of your neck. When you walked home, he’d trailed closely behind, just to keep an eye. You live in a rough area, he just has to make sure you’re okay.

And you seriously had no idea. God, you were oblivious. But he supposed he was grateful, he didn’t want you thinking he was some pervert.

But the time had come, he decided. It was fate, really. He was, yet again, trailing behind you on a late, rainy night, when you dropped your purse. It was a sign, it had to be, so he picked it up and approached you. “Miss? You dropped this.” He says, voice cold and even. Far too even considered he had your panties in his inner coat pocket and your toothbrush in his bag.