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“Why did you stop stalking me?” He says it with the faintest lift at the corner of his lips, warm breath brushing my face.

I hate that I notice it.

I hate that I react to it.

I should step back. I should say something normal. Instead, I keep looking at him, trying to read him, trying to understand what he wants from this.

Also—did he just say stalking? H-he knew?

“Huh?” The sound slips out more whine than word, and the fact that he’s looking at my mouth like that is not helping. “W- what stalking?”

Lord, help my case. Even I don’t believe myself.

“You know. The usual.” He shrugs casually. “Hiding behind walls in the parking lot. The hat pulled low when I leave to run. The yellow rental car that keeps ending up behind me.” He pauses, then lets out a quiet chuckle. “Following me to the library.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I grit out quickly.

Ignore him. Just two months. Two months.

“I already knew.” He adds. “The hat just made it obvious.” Then his finger taps lightly against my nose and my breath catches before I can stop it.

His thumb brushes against my fingers, and I realise we’re still holding hands.

“If you wanted my attention, you could’ve just asked,” I say, forcing my voice steadier than I feel. “Calling me a stalker is lazy.”

I’ll deal with how that sounded later. I pull my hand back quickly, and surprisingly, the grip is easy to break.

He doesn’t look offended. If anything, something in his expression shifts and before I can fully process it, his hand catches my waist and he pulls me closer.

It’s too fast to react properly and I find my hands splayed across his chest just to steady myself.

He leans closer, his nose sliding against my cheek and he takes a huge inhale of my scent. The growl that leaves him stuns me in place and I blink rapidly as if mistaking it as a dream.

“Liar.” He whispers, his grip tightening around my waist, his thumbs pressing against the thin black fabric as if he wants to tear the material off to shreds.

He’s breathing…hard. Like something is happening to him and I’m the cause and the aid.

Just when I think he’s going to do something reckless like fusing his lips with mine, he sighs and gives my waist one harsh squeeze before stepping away.

I step back immediately, pulling my hands off his chest like I’ve been burned.

Another step.

Then another. And then I’m turning away entirely, moving fast enough that I don’t have to think about what just happened.

My phone pings with a message in the group chat. I stop just short of entering my flat.

I read it once, then again. Because surely I’m seeing things. It can’t be true.

Sergei is going to fight tonight.

FIVE

Sergei

Ihate this.

Growing up with an abusive father often pushes you in one of two directions: you either repeat his patterns, or you break them.