I left the bar with his presence clinging to me like a second skin.
I didn't look back.
I didn't need to.
I could feel him—watching, calculating, memorizing the way I walked, the sway of my hips, the hesitation in my steps. My heart refused to slow, pounding as if it had already accepted something my mind was still trying to deny.
I told myself I was imagining it.
Until my phone vibrated.
Unknown Number: You made it outside safely.
I stopped walking.
My fingers trembled as I typed.
Me: How did you get my number?
Three dots appeared immediately.
Unknown Number: I told you. I don't guess.
A shiver slid down my spine.
Me: You're crossing a line.
Seconds passed.
Unknown Number: You've been standing still for twelve seconds. You do that when you're overwhelmed.
My breath caught.
I turned slowly.
He stood across the street, leaning against a black car so sleek it looked unreal, the city lights glinting off polished metal. His arms were crossed, expression unreadable, gaze locked on me like a tether.
He didn't move.
He didn't need to.
I walked back to him.
I hated how easily my body obeyed.
"Are you always this confident?" I asked when I stopped a safe distance away.
"No," he replied calmly. "Only when I'm right."
His eyes traced my face, my throat, the pulse jumping beneath my skin. "You're shaking."
"I'm not afraid," I said quickly.
"I know," he said. "If you were, you wouldn't be here."
That infuriated me. And thrilled me.
"You don't get to decide that."
His mouth curved slightly. "You came back."
I folded my arms, defensive. "You're intense."
"You like it."
The truth sat between us, heavy and undeniable.
"What do you want from me?" I asked.
He stepped closer—close enough that I could smell him now, something dark and expensive, something that lingered. He stopped just before our bodies touched.
"I want to know you," he said. "Every thought you don't say out loud. Every weakness you pretend you don't have."
"That sounds less like curiosity and more like ownership."
His gaze sharpened.
"Good," he said.
I sucked in a breath.
"You're dangerous," I whispered.
"Yes."
"And you're still here," he added softly.
I should have walked away.
Instead, I tilted my chin up. "You don't own me."
His hand rose—not to touch me—but to hover just beneath my jaw. I felt the heat of him there, the restraint, the promise.
"Not yet," he said quietly. "But you're already choosing me."
My heart betrayed me again.
HIM
She thought she was in control.
That was the most fascinating part.
I'd known the moment she walked into the bar—head high, eyes guarded, smile carefully measured—that she was the kind of woman who didn't surrender easily. The kind who would fight the pull even as it dragged her closer.
Those were always the ones who burned the brightest.
I had spent weeks watching her from a distance. Learning her patterns. Her favorite coffee. The route she took home when she thought no one noticed.
Protection came before possession.
Always.
She stood in front of me now, defiant, flushed, pretending her pulse wasn't racing. Pretending she didn't feel the claim already forming between us.
I admired her strength.
I planned to break it gently.
"You don't trust me," she said.
"No," I replied honestly. "You don't trust yourself with me."
Her lips parted.
I leaned in, stopping just short of touching her mouth. Close enough that she could feel every word.
"If I wanted to take you," I murmured, "you wouldn't be standing here arguing."
Her breath hitched.
"But I don't take what hasn't asked to be claimed."
She swallowed.
"Then why follow me?" she whispered.
"Because you're already mine," I said calmly. "You just haven't admitted it."
Her eyes darkened—anger, desire, confusion colliding beautifully.
"I should go," she said.
"Yes," I agreed. "You should."
She didn't move.
I stepped back first, opening the car door—not inviting her in, not trapping her. Giving her space.
Control wasn't force.
It was inevitability.
"Go home," I said. "Sleep. Pretend you don't feel this."
"And tomorrow?" she asked.
I met her gaze, unwavering.
"Tomorrow," I said, "I'll remind you."
She turned and walked away, every step echoing victory and restraint.
I watched until she disappeared into the night.
Then I unlocked my phone.
Security: She's home.
Good.
Mine, but safe.
For now.
HER
I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt him—his voice, his stare, the promise wrapped in restraint. I told myself it was dangerous. I told myself to forget him.
My phone buzzed at dawn.
Him: Good morning.
My heart raced.
Him: Wear something soft today. I like imagining my hands there.
Heat flooded my cheeks.
Me: You're impossible.
A pause.
Him: You're still replying.
I stared at the screen, pulse pounding.
And somewhere deep inside, a terrifying truth settled in:
This wasn't just attraction.
This was obsession.
And it was pulling me under.