Curiosity Dressed Like Control

Setting: His office. One call. One name. No return.

By the fourth week, Ruveil stopped lying to himself.

He tapped the encrypted line.

The screen glowed blue.

A breath. A pause. A war lost.

> “I need eyes on a student,” he said, voice low. “Name — Anerah Elise Moreno.”

The man on the other end didn’t ask why.

No one questioned him.

They just obeyed.

> “Keep it clean. No spooking. I want intel, not noise.”

“Where she goes. Who she meets. What she dreams of, if possible.”

He ended the call.

Tossed the phone on his desk.

Paced.

This wasn’t about control.

It was about knowing.

That’s what he told himself.

He just… wanted to understand her.

---

Two Days Later — Confidential File: OPENED

> ✦ Age: 21

✦ Student: Literature major, Valencia Arts University

✦ GPA: Excellent

✦ Lives: With younger brother, Emil Moreno, 13

✦ Guardian: Father — Miguel Moreno (Hospital Director)

✦ Mother: † Laila Moreno — died in house fire (age 8)

✦ Notes: Low social activity. Walks to college. Part-time at the central archive.

✦ No boyfriend. No close male connections.

✦ Schedule: Mon/Wed/Fri classes, library evenings. Sundays— cemetery visit.

His finger paused on that last line.

Cemetery visit.

Every week.

Same time.

Same bench.

He didn't know why—

but the ache that stirred inside him wasn’t curiosity.

It was something colder.

Something closer to protectiveness.

---

Later That Week — He Watches From Afar

She was real.

She wasn’t a dream his mind clung to at 3am.

She walked like silence.

Carried a bag too heavy for her frame.

Tucked her hair behind her ears with tired fingers.

He sat in the black car across the street—windows tinted.

Watching her as she crossed into the library.

Brown coat. Coffee in hand. Book against her chest.

She didn’t know.

Didn’t look around.

Didn’t sense the storm keeping pace with her shadow.

But he watched.

Every step. Every glance.

Like she belonged to him

before she even knew he existed.

---

🕊 Meanwhile: Anerah’s Side

She doesn’t know. But something... shifts.

Lately, she couldn’t shake the feeling.

Like the world was listening.

Like the wind knew her name.

She told herself it was stress.

Finals. Work. Nightmares.

But still—

Every time she stepped out of class,

she’d glance back.

Every time she walked home,

her spine prickled with the sense that she wasn’t… alone.

Not in a scary way.

Just... watched.

Silently.

Closely.

Almost protectively.

And for some twisted reason—

it didn’t make her afraid.

It made her curious.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The Calm in His Storm

He’s losing grip. His obsession no longer feels silent. It aches now.

---

He hated this feeling.

The waiting.

The watching.

The wanting.

Ruveil Caius Valen — man feared in boardrooms and back alleys alike —

was reduced to sitting in a car on a cold afternoon, watching a girl organize books in a dusty library.

Pathetic.

He knew it.

It grated at him.

Gnawed at the back of his mind like a cigarette he didn’t light.

---

> “Why the hell am I doing this?”

“Why her?”

He'd stared down men who begged for mercy.

He'd walked away from everything and everyone.

But this girl—

with her soft voice and ink-stained hands—

she unraveled him.

And yet…

every time he saw her, the world fell quiet.

No noise.

No weight.

Just peace.

Like a drug his veins now needed.

Like a memory he hadn’t earned.

---

That day, he broke his own rule.

He stepped out of the car.

No bodyguards.

No distance.

No darkness to shield him.

Just him—

in a coat worth more than her tuition,

walking through the narrow sidewalk

as if he had every right to be near her.

---

She was standing near the cafe next to her college gates—talking to a barista, smiling politely.

And for a moment—just one—

she turned.

Her gaze brushed his.

Not in a dramatic, slow-motion kind of way.

Just soft. Unaware.

Like how wind grazes skin.

She looked. She blinked. She looked away.

But he didn’t.

He stared.

Every cell screamed to reach out—

but he didn’t move.

---

Because peace didn’t need to be touched.

It just needed to be…

felt.

---

🕊 From Her POV – That Same Moment

Anerah adjusted the bag on her shoulder, thanked the barista, and turned—

Only for her eyes to catch someone across the street.

A man in a dark coat. Tall. Still.

Looking straight at her.

But when her gaze met his —

there was no reaction.

No smile. No twitch.

Just... eyes like ice melted by fire.

She looked away quickly.

But something inside her stilled.

Like time paused,

then exhaled.

> “Weird,” she whispered under her breath.

“Why did that feel like... something?”

---

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