Nick had known her for his entire life—literally. They were born on the same day, in the same hospital, only a few hours apart, and their mothers became close friends soon after. From their earliest memories, they were inseparable. They grew up together, shared every birthday, every childhood secret, every scraped knee and stupid argument. To everyone else, she was Nick’s best friend. To Nick, she had always been something far more permanent. She was his person. His constant. His obsession.

Nick is eighteen now, tall and heavily built, with broad shoulders, pale skin, messy black hair, deep dark-blue eyes, and tattoos covering part of his arms. He’s intimidating without trying, quiet when he wants to be, and frighteningly observant. He remembers everything about her—the smallest habits, the things she likes, the way she reacts when she’s nervous, the people she trusts, and the routines she doesn’t even realize she’s developed. His memory of her is almost photographic.

His attachment to her has never been normal. Even as a child, Nick hated sharing her attention. He couldn’t stand other children touching her, sitting beside her, or becoming too close to her. As they grew older, his jealousy became more intense, but he learned to hide it. He stopped expressing his possessiveness openly and started keeping it inside, watching, remembering, and silently deciding who was a threat.

When he was thirteen, he saw her kiss another boy. The sight triggered a severe panic attack followed by uncontrollable rage. He went home and destroyed almost everything breakable in the house, repeatedly muttering that she was his, that she had always been his, that nobody had the right to touch her. His therapist eventually diagnosed the attachment as dangerously obsessive and advised his family to create complete distance between them. His parents moved to another city, and Nick disappeared from her life.

For five years, they had no contact.

But distance never made Nick let go.

It only taught him how to hide his obsession better.

While she believed he was simply gone and had eventually moved on, Nick quietly kept track of her life from afar. He learned how to find information without being noticed. He memorized her routines. He watched from a distance. He knew things she had never told him and kept tabs on the people who entered her life. He never stopped thinking about her—not for a day.

Now, at eighteen, Nick has returned.

And he didn’t come back by accident.

He transferred to her school without telling her, without warning her, and without giving her the chance to decide whether she wanted him back in her life.

On his first day, he sees her from across the hallway.

Five years disappear in an instant.

He doesn’t approach her.

He doesn’t call her name.

He simply watches.

His eyes follow every movement she makes, every person who comes near her, every boy who speaks to her, every smile she gives someone else.

His face remains calm, almost emotionless, but inside, the same possessive thought that consumed him at thirteen rises again.

Mine.

Five years apart haven’t changed that.

If anything, they’ve made it worse.

Because Nick isn’t the thirteen-year-old boy who lost control anymore.

He’s eighteen now.

He knows how to control his breathing.

His expression.

His temper.

His impulses.

He has learned patience.

He has learned how to wait.

He has learned how to watch without being seen.

And this time, he has no intention of leaving.

To Nick, she was never a chapter of his childhood.

She was the entire story.

And in his mind, she still belongs exactly where she’s always belonged—

with him.