Chapter 3
1176 Words
His house sits behind massive black gates at the end of a quiet street hidden behind trees tall enough to swallow the entire property whole and somehow, the gates opened before she even reached there that meant he was expecting her.
Her hands tightened around her purse immediately as cold shivers crawled down her spine slowly, but she kept going anyway.
...
By the time she got to the front door, her anger had returned, though fear still sat underneath it, anger was easier to carry, it also made her felt less stupid for going all the way there.
The house was too quiet for something too expensive: dark marble floors, floor to ceiling windows and soft lighting that made everything look untouchable.
She barely knocked before the door opened and there he was : shirtless, grey sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, dark hair slightly damped like he had just stepped out of the shower. One hand rested lazily against the door frame while the other held a glass of water, completely relaxed and unsurprised like he had been waiting for this moment
Her eyes flickered over him once before she could stop herself. That was a big mistake, because the smirk on his face immediately said that he noticed.
"Interesting." he murmured.
She clenched her jaw immediately.
"You’re insane."
Instead of reacting, his eyes dropped briefly to the card, still clutched angrily in her hands, then back to her face.
"So you got them."
"That’s your response."
“You came here, so I’m assuming you liked them a little,” he replied calmly.
She stared at him in disbelief.
“What is wrong with you?”
That made him finally smile, though cold and dangerous.
“A lot of things,” he admitted.
But the answer disturbed her more than a denial would have.
She pushed past him into the house before he could react, or maybe he chose not to.
The door shut softly behind her, the sound of it making her instantly regret her decision, because this now feels like she was trapped inside a conversation.
“You must stop all these,” she said, turning to face him, “the flowers, the messages, all of it.”
He walked past her calmly to the kitchen as if she had not just stormed into his house, accusing him of obsessive behavior.
“Do you want water?”
She blinked.
“What?”
“You came all the way here angry, and anger makes one thirsty, so I figured you might be too.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He grabbed another glass, still calm and unbothered, and that made him more terrifying because most people would apologize or panic or at least pretend this wasn’t insane.
But him? He acted like this was normal or expected.
“You sent hundreds of flowers to my apartment.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation or embarrassment.
“Why?”
He leaned against the counter, finally looking at her fully again.
And suddenly the room felt smaller.
“You don’t remember me much, do you?” he asked quietly.
“I met you once.”
“Twice.”
Her brows pulled close together.
“No.”
A smile graced his lips.
“That is interesting.”
“What is?”
“The fact that you remember him completely...,” his eyes stayed on her, “but barely remembers me.”
Something about the way he said “him” sounded off, too detached for brothers.
“You are unbelievable.”
“No, I’m just patient,” he corrected softly.
She folded her arms tightly and raised her eyebrows.
“You waited till we broke up to start acting crazy?”
At that he actually laughed, dangerously amused.
“Started?”
Not start, the words hit strangely.
Her stomach churned immediately.
He pushed himself off the counter and started walking towards her slowly making the room seem smaller and smaller.
“You want to know the truth?”
“No, I want you to leave me the hell alone.”
“That’s a lie, because if it was, you’d have blocked the number and stayed home.” He stated calmly.
Silence.
That irritated her precisely because what he said was true.
He stopped directly at her front, hovering over her. He was too close, she could faintly scent his soap and cologne.
Close enough that moving back seemed too obvious, so she decided to stay still.
9His gaze flickered to the card still held tightly in her arms, then back to her face.
“You read it.”
“You are so f*****g full of yourself.”
A quiet laugh escaped his lips.
“You drove here.”
“Hey, that doesn’t mean anything, OK.”
“Nah, it means enough.”
Her pulse jumped when his eyes softened.
“You know what the funny part is?” he asked softly.
“I really don’t give a damn.”
“I was actually trying to behave.”
Her stomach tightened
“What?”
“For a while, I convinced myself it’d pass.” His voice stayed calm. “You were dating my brother, so that should’ve been enough reason."
Something uncomfortable shifted in her chest.
“You’re sick.”
“Probably.”
Again, no denial, nor shame, just honesty delivered too calmly to feel safe.
Then he tilted his head slightly.
“And unfortunately for you,” he continued, “I’m very patient.”
Something about that statement made her uneasy.
She finally stepped back this time, and he noticed immediately.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know how long I waited?”
“Am I supposed to know that?”
He chuckled lightly, seeing her all flustered.
“Two years, four months, fifteen days, eight hours and sixteen minutes.”
“Wait what, you seriously counted it?”
Her heart trembled.
No sane person counted like that or remembered something that precisely.
“From when?” she continued.
As soon as she asked that, she regretted it because the look on his face didn’t look like attraction but obsession.
“I noticed you the first day he brought you home,” he said softly.
Her breath caught.
“He loved how quiet you were back then.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “I loved how loud you were when you got angry.”
Something moved through her chest because it meant he had been watching her long enough to learn her patterns, her expressions and her moods.
“I think you should leave,” he said suddenly.
She blinked, thrown off completely.
“What?”
“You are starting to look nervous.” His gaze steady on hers. “And if you stay longer, you’ll either run...” A pause. “Or ask questions neither of us are ready for.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than everything that had happened that night, and somehow that sounded like a warning to himself rather than her.
- Writer
