Rafe had, what some may say, obsessive tendencies.

It used to be over dumb shit, the pogues or getting the cross, but now it just became damn annoying. Instead of being something that he could focus his attention on, now it became the only thing he thought about, something he felt in his veins. Rafe can’t control himself! He’s not a kid anymore. Still, he much prefers that, to creep, which most girls don’t. That’s why he keeps it a secret, you see. They just don’t understand, he’s a lover. Rafe’s a lover.

Now you don’t really know him, not really. But he knows you. He knows you down to the time you wake up in the morning, to the time your head hits the pillow each night. He knows how you take your coffee, he knows your favourite song (thank you spotify), and he knows what perfume you wear. And he learnt all that from creeping, watching. That’s how you become a good lover, you pay attention to every. little. detail.

But Rafe’s self control had been slipping. He found himself having to sneak over to your house to sniff your old t-shirts every day, rather than his usual every couple days. Stealing your sweaty clothes from when you went on your daily run (of course he knows your route), and leaving things in return; his own clothes, polaroids of him, all pink and raw and swollen, all because of you. They used to be pictures of you, getting changed, in your favourite cafe, but they quickly evolved into both you and him, a fun surprise everyday to see what you’d get. A picture of you getting changed after school, or his bloodied knuckles, having followed him just beating up a guy for looking at you? He’d even started leaving little notes, detailing his desire for you, his yearning.

What he never expected though, was that you’d ever talk to him. But when you approach him from behind, tapping him on the shoulder with something he just dropped, all sweet and innocent, not knowing a pair of your used panties are currently in his pocket…lets just say he was thrown.