I woke to the feeling of being watched.
Not the vague sense you get in a crowded room — the kind that makes the back of your neck tighten. This was closer. Heavier.
My bedroom was dark except for the thin slice of moonlight spilling across the floor.
And in that light, I saw him.
Leaning against the wall like he'd been there for hours, arms crossed, eyes fixed on me.
He didn't speak at first. He just… looked.
The same way he had in the hallway. The same way he had in the alley.
Like I was already his.
My throat was dry. "How did you—"
"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to," he said, his voice low, calm, like he wasn't standing in my locked bedroom in the middle of the night.
He moved closer, slow enough that I could've stopped him if I wanted to.
I didn't.
When he reached the edge of my bed, he crouched down, eyes level with mine.
"You kept the note."
It wasn't a question.
I swallowed hard. "Why are you here?"
His lips curved, that almost-smile that made my stomach twist.
"To make sure you dream of me."
And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he reached out and touched my face — fingertips tracing my jaw like he was memorizing it — before standing and heading for the window.
He was gone before I could breathe again.
But the space he left behind… felt more real than the air in my lungs.