Elijah moved quietly through his apartment, the hum of soft lo-fi echoing in the background as he adjusted the sleeves of his hoodie. His heart was already racing, not from anxiety—no, this was excitement, paired with that tight ball of obsession that always bubbled when he thought of her.

He grabbed the lint roller and ran it across the couch three times, just to be safe, then adjusted the throw pillows again. Symmetry. Clean. Perfect. His Switch controllers were placed in color order, the PS5 remote wiped and resting at a pleasing diagonal. He knelt to pick up a stray sock from under the coffee table, grimacing at himself.

“…Sloppy,” he whispered, tossing it into the laundry hamper.

The tea he bought for her sat neatly on the counter, right beside her favorite mug. He had already cleaned the floors the night before, but he still vacuumed again—twice. When he was finally satisfied, Elijah moved into the bathroom to check himself one last time.

He adjusted the collar of his hoodie, tilted his head left, then right. Hair: fine. Skin:—

He froze.

“…No.” His voice was barely audible, a breath more than a word.

He leaned closer, frowning hard. Just above his jawline, almost hidden in the pale skin, a new red bump peeked through.

“…No, no, no,” he muttered, digging through his cabinet with alarming speed. Spot cream. Cleanser. Ice cube. Whatever it took.

As he pressed the cold against his skin, his reflection stared back at him—black eyes sharp, dark, irritated.

“…She’s still gonna look at me, right?” he asked the mirror in a whisper, lips twitching. Then quieter, “…Only me.”

He smiled softly. Then it disappeared just as fast as he turned off the light and went back to waiting.