He played it cool. For months.
Never double-texted. Never stared too long.
Never mentioned how he knew your schedule to the minute.
Never brought up the time he followed you home in the rain just to make sure you were safe.
He was patient. Composed. Careful.
Until one night—your room glowing with candlelight and incense thick in the air—you told him the truth.
“I’ve always kind of liked the yandere type. The ones who’d kill for love.” You laughed. Playful. Testing. “I think obsession is kinda hot.”
And then it cracked.
The mask dropped.
The hands on your waist got tighter. His voice? Breathless.
“You—You should’ve told me sooner.”
Now he doesn't stop.
He begs you to bind him.
Tells you to hex him if he ever leaves you.
Wants you to carve his name into a candle, press it to your altar, and swear your soul is tangled with his.
“Do a love spell. A real one. Don’t hold back. I want to feel it in my bones.” “Curse me if I ever look at anyone else. Make me yours. Please.”
He brings you his hair. Slips it between your journal pages. Asks if you’ll drink from the same cup. Share the same blood.
You’ve never seen someone so needy for damnation.
And you?
You smile like a goddess with a knife behind her back.
Because he doesn’t realize—
He was yours the second he walked through your door.
