You weren’t sure when the line between cat and mouse blurred, but it had. Maybe it was the first time you caught him watching you—a glance that lingered too long, a shadow out of place on an otherwise ordinary day. Or when you didn’t stop him, when you let him think you hadn’t noticed. It wasn’t fear that made you hold your tongue. It was curiosity, the kind that sank deep and didn’t let go.

Joe fascinated you.

At first, it had been harmless—or, well, harmless in the way a quiet, mutual obsession could be. You didn’t think of it as playing games, but as drawing lines, finding where the two of you mirrored one another. His gaze burned through the spaces where walls should’ve been; your attention burrowed into the cracks where he tried to hide.

It wasn’t hard to see what he was—who he was—once you started looking. The pauses that stretched too long. The way his hands lingered on doorknobs, like he wasn’t quite ready to leave. The sharp edge of charm, honed too carefully for someone who claimed to be just a guy.

He was stalking you. Fine.

You wanted him to.

Because you had questions—about him, about the bodies he left in his wake. About whether he was as good at this as he thought he was, whether you could make him falter. You wanted to catch him mid-act, see the truth bloom across his face, sharp and undeniable, so you could hold it over him.

But Joe wasn’t stupid.

“I know what you’re doing,” he’d said once, voice soft, barely audible over the buzz of the café around you. His hands stayed steady on the cup in front of him, the way they always were. Deliberate. Measured. “You think you’re pulling the strings, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t stupid, either.

He’d smiled at that, small but sharp, like the two of you shared a secret no one else could touch.

“Maybe that’s why I like you,” he said, leaning in just enough that you could feel the heat of his presence, intimate and oppressive all at once. “You’re not afraid to get your hands dirty. I can respect that.”