Because I knew something she didn’t.
This wasn’t the first time I’d imagined her chained to my bed.
It was the first time I walked into her life and didn’t need to imagine anymore.
I left just before 3:00 a.m. Quiet. Careful. Slow.
But not before I did one thing.
I bent beside her sleeping form, close enough to press my lips to her ear, and whispered:
“Don’t ever lock the window again.”
I let the words hang there. Let them drip down into her sleeping mind like venom.
This isn’t just about obsession.
It’s about conditioning.
She shifts again under the blanket. Her brows twitch like she’s dreaming something heavy. Maybe I’m already in it. Maybe she’s running in her sleep and doesn’t know it’s me chasing her.
I step back and just watch her breathe.
Slow. Steady. Fragile.
I wonder how long it would take for her to break if I stayed.
If I let her wake up with me still here.
Would she scream?
Or would she freeze?
Would she whisper my name the way she did in her sleep—soft, broken, breathless—like a prayer carved in bruises?
I reach for the blanket and drag it down an inch—just to see more of her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder.
Perfect.
She sleeps as if she’s waiting to be claimed. Waiting to be owned.
And I’m going to take her in layers.
Not just her body.
Her time.
Her space.
Her privacy.
Her trust.
I’ll carve myself into the softest parts of her life until there’s nowhere she can look without seeing me.
I slide one of her notebooks off the nightstand. It’s not the journal—I already felt that spine—but this one’s lined with messy scrawls and ink stains. Her handwriting’s erratic. Emotional. Beautiful.
A grocery list. A poem.
