The Softest Obsession

His world kept spinning. He just stopped caring.

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His assistant knocked twice before entering.

> “Sir, the Milan deal—”

> “Give it to Matthias,” Ruveil said, not even looking up from the monitor.

> “And the board wants you at the—”

> “Decline.”

There was a pause.

Then the assistant, wisely, nodded and left.

Because when Ruveil Valen said no, it meant the world could burn for all he cared.

And right now—

he cared only for her.

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She had become a rhythm in his life.

A quiet, predictable rhythm he memorized like sacred scripture.

— She took her tea with honey, not sugar.

— She re-read books she already knew by heart.

— She never stepped on cracks in the pavement.

— She wore her headphones but never played music.

He noticed everything.

Stored it all.

Let it seep into his bones like sunlight through a window.

---

“Little leaf.”

That’s what he started calling her in his mind.

Petite. Soft. Always drifting. Never grounded.

Anerah.

Too many syllables.

Too delicate for the mess he was.

But little leaf —

it suited her.

> “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, little leaf.”

He murmured it one night, sitting in his car across the street while she laughed at a joke a friend made.

It wasn’t jealousy.

Not yet.

But it was close.

---

His empire had survived assassinations, corporate wars, betrayal.

But her—

her laugh?

Her quiet sighs when she flipped a page?

The way she rubbed her thumb over her tea mug when deep in thought?

That was the only thing that felt dangerous.

---

He followed her.

To the bookstore.

To the market.

To the cemetery on Sundays.

Always at a distance.

Always invisible.

But always there.

She was unaware—

or maybe pretending.

But he’d made a vow now, even if only in silence:

> “As long as you move, I follow.”

“As long as you breathe, I watch.”

“Until the world dares to touch you—then I stop being gentle.”

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Soft Footsteps in Her Mind

He wasn't a face. He was a feeling. A storm cloaked in calm.

---

Days passed.

Rain came and went.

Books flipped. Coffee cooled. Life remained… as it always did.

But not for her.

Not inside.

Because Anerah began noticing things.

Her flowers bloomed too quickly.

The white rose in her windowsill — withering the night before — had opened again by morning.

She stared at it. Confused.

Shrugged. Ignored it.

But then —

her usual seat at the campus library was already cleaned, waiting.

She hadn’t been there in three days.

Then a strange moment in the cafe —

She dropped her handkerchief on the ground.

Before she could bend, it was there again — neatly folded, placed on her table.

No one had approached her.

> "Coincidences," she whispered.

But she didn't believe it.

She could feel him.

Not with her eyes.

But with her skin.

With her breath.

That soft pull in her chest when the sky darkened, like something — someone — was finally near.

And when it vanished, she felt… disappointed.

> Why?

Why do I crave it?

---

Then came the dreams.

Not nightmares. Not quite.

Just… shadows.

Long hallways. Soft footsteps.

The scent of spice and leather.

She'd walk barefoot in moonlight, feeling watched —

but never afraid.

Never harmed.

And always at the end…

A pair of hands brushing her waist,

as a voice she'd never heard whispered:

> "Mine."

She’d wake up breathless.

Skin flushed.

Body aching with a need she didn’t understand.

And her window would be slightly ajar.

---

Then came the mirror note.

Scrawled with charcoal.

Just one line:

> “You smell like jasmine and ink. I don’t know why I like that.”

No name.

No explanation.

Anerah stared.

She touched her neck unconsciously.

Because just the night before, she’d worn her mother’s jasmine oil.

And she’d been reading with her ink-stained fingertips near her lips.

> “He was here.”

"He saw me."

She should’ve panicked.

She should’ve screamed.

But instead, she sat down on the edge of her bed, exhaled shakily… and smiled.

Just a little.

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