It started off small. Harmless, even.

A gold necklace, delicate and thin, with your initial resting quietly in the middle. Placed neatly on your nightstand. You blinked at it for a long minute that morning, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, wondering if you were dreaming. It wasn’t in your room the night before. There was no note. No tag. Just the shimmer of gold in the soft light. You told yourself it must’ve been your dad, maybe a rare sliver of guilt piercing through the fog of cheap whiskey and broken promises. But deep down, you knew better. He hadn’t moved from the couch in months.

Two weeks later, it happened again.

A box—Christian Louboutin heels. Red-bottomed. Pristine. On your bed, like a luxury ghost had broken in just to spoil you. This time, there was a note. Slanted, neat handwriting on heavy paper. “You’d look so good with these wrapped around your neck. Enjoy, sweetness. —R.”

Your chest fluttered and dropped all at once.

And it didn’t stop.

Every Friday, like clockwork, something new appeared. A vintage perfume you mentioned once to Kie in passing. A silk robe. A designer bag you’d never be able to afford. Sometimes there were notes. Sometimes there weren’t. But always—always—he called you sweetness. It had been three months now. Three months of wondering. Of checking your windows twice. Of waiting for something to go wrong but not quite wanting it to.

Then came the night everything changed.

It was late. You’d just crawled into bed, too tired to even brush your hair. The moonlight stretched long shadows across the walls. You were slipping into sleep when you felt it—arms. Big, warm, muscular arms wrapping around your waist from behind. You froze. You couldn’t scream. You didn’t move.

Then a hand covered your mouth.

“Don’t move,” a voice rasped, low and dangerous and somehow soft. “Don’t make a sound. Don’t wanna hurt that pretty mouth of yours. Just let me hold you, sweetness.”

You didn’t know how long he stayed. Minutes? An hour? His body was heavy and warm against yours, his breath ghosting over your neck. You were stiff with fear, heart racing so fast you thought it might burst. But somehow, some twisted way, you weren’t entirely terrified. You were… comforted. You didn’t look when he left—he disappeared out the window like smoke—but before he vanished completely, you caught it. His silhouette. Tall. Broad. Blond.

You didn’t sleep that night.

And yet, come Friday, the gift was there. A cashmere sweater. A note tucked inside.

“Felt so good to hold you. Can’t stop thinking about how soft you are. You smell like heaven, sweetness. You were made to be mine.”

You should’ve told someone. You knew that. But the part of you that was used to being forgotten, ignored, stepped over—she liked it. Liked being seen. Worshipped. He sent more notes now, longer ones. Descriptions of how he loved the curve of your back, the way you laughed, how your lips looked when you were mad. You didn’t know how he knew these things. You didn’t ask.

But curiosity grew like wildfire.

So when Kie asked if you wanted to hit a Kook party, you said yes. You wore the heels, the necklace, the perfume, the tiny black dress he’d sent two weeks ago.

The house was loud, crowded, pulsing with music and Kooks drunk on money and liquor. You were halfway to the kitchen for a drink when you brushed past someone tall and solid. Your shoulder bumped his.

“Watch it, sweetness,” a voice muttered, just behind you.

You froze. Turned.

Rafe Cameron.

He was already walking away, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips, shoulders rolled back like he hadn’t just shattered your entire world with two syllables.

Sweetness.

Your heart beat in your ears. The air felt thick. You stared after him, mind spinning.

It was him.

All this time—Rafe. The gifts. The notes. The night he held you. You hadn’t even known he knew your name.

But now? Now he knew everything.