732 days.
That's how long I've kept my distance. Two years of restraint, of waiting for the right moment. Watching her from shadows, tracing every step she took, every sigh she exhaled.
And now—she's here.
Same campus. Same building. Same lecture hall.
Arielle Torres.
She walks like a ghost in daylight, shoulders curled in, trying to fold herself smaller, quieter. But I see her. I always see her. She doesn't know the way her presence shifts the air, how every detail of her becomes a map I've memorized.
Today, she sat two rows down.
Close enough that I could hear the faint scratch of her pen. Close enough that I could smell the faint trace of soap on her skin when the air stirred.
But she didn't notice me—not at first.
I leaned back, calm, waiting. My gaze never wavered. I've learned patience; it's a weapon, sharper than any knife. And then it happened—she looked up.
Her eyes locked on mine.
For the briefest second, the world stilled.
Her pupils widened, her breath hitched. She looked away too quickly, but I saw it—the crack of awareness, the thread of recognition. Some part of her knows. Even if her mind denies it, her body remembers the weight of being watched.
Good.
Fear is the first step.
I kept my gaze steady, savoring the way she shrank into her notebook, pretending to write. My Arielle has always been a terrible liar. She hides behind pens and paper, behind sketches and silence, but I know every tell. Every nervous twitch.
Then he appeared.
A boy. Smiling. Too close.
He slid into the seat beside her like it was nothing, like he had the right to breathe the same air as her.
I clenched my jaw, nails biting into my palm under the desk. She spoke to him. Quiet, but enough. Enough to stir something violent under my skin.
I reminded myself: patience.
He doesn't matter. None of them matter.
Because she's mine.
I leaned forward, resting my elbow on the desk, letting my eyes trace her profile openly. I wanted her to feel it. To know she isn't alone, no matter how many crowds she hides in.
The lecture blurred into background noise. I didn't hear a word the professor said. My world narrowed to the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her lashes, the way her fingers trembled against the notebook spiral.
When class ended, she gathered her things slowly, her head ducked, but I knew she was aware of me. She didn't have to look back—I could feel it in the way her steps faltered, in the stiffness of her spine.
She made it to the door, to the noisy comfort of her friend. But then—
She turned.
Our eyes met again across the sea of emptying seats.
And this time, she didn't look away fast enough.
I let the corner of my mouth lift. Not a smile. A promise.
Her face paled, and she turned sharply, almost running to keep up with her friend.
I sat there long after the room emptied, savoring the echo of her fear.
This is only the beginning.
Arielle has lived seventeen years believing the world didn't notice her. She has no idea how wrong she is.
No idea that every step she takes is a thread I've already woven into my web.
And soon enough—
she'll stop running.
Because prey doesn't escape the hunter.
Not when the hunter has been waiting this long.