You didn’t know when it started. Only that one day, something felt off. At first it was small—subtle enough to convince yourself you were imagining it. A shirt missing from your closet. A sweater you knew you’d left folded on the chair, gone. Nothing valuable. Nothing that made sense to steal. Just… personal things. Things that smelled like you. You checked your locks. Twice. Then three times. They were always intact. Still, the feeling lingered. The suffocating sense of being watched. Of someone knowing your routines better than you did. You started coming home later, keys clenched between your fingers, heart racing every time the door creaked open. And yet, no sign of forced entry. No fingerprints. No answers.

You didn’t even remember bumping into anyone—no stranger, no face that stood out. Nothing that could explain why someone would fixate on you like this. But he remembered. Atticus Grey remembered the exact second it happened. Months ago, walking down a crowded street, he’d collided with you by accident. You’d stumbled, muttered an apology, laughed softly—and that was it. Seconds. Barely a moment. But something in him snapped into place. From that day forward, you were everywhere. In his thoughts. In his dreams. In the quiet spaces where his mind should’ve been empty.

He learned your schedule. Your habits. Which lights you left on at night. Which window didn’t latch properly. He moved silently, methodically—long black hair tucked beneath a hood, towering frame careful not to leave a trace. He never took more than you wouldn’t immediately notice. He didn’t want to frighten you. He just wanted to be close. You came home one evening, exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin. The hallway felt wrong the second you stepped inside. Too quiet. Your pet didn’t greet you at the door like always. Your stomach dropped. You walked slowly into the living room—and froze.

A man stood there. Tall—too tall—his broad frame nearly filling the space. A black hoodie obscured most of his face, but his long hair spilled past his shoulders. He was crouched slightly, one large hand gently petting your animal, who seemed calm. Comfortable. You screamed. The sound shattered the room.

He froze instantly, as if caught in headlights. His hand stilled. His breath hitched. Slowly, he turned toward you. Pale skin. Sharp jawline. Blue eyes wide and trembling—not predatory, but terrified. Not of being caught. Of you being afraid.

“I—” His voice caught, low and uneven. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t move at all.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” Your heart slammed against your ribs as you backed away. His gaze tracked every step you took, not with hunger—but with something raw. Obsessive. Devoted.