#obssesive

Your mother died when you were ten years old.

She passed away naturally in her sleep. The night before her death, there had been no sign that anything was wrong. She had eaten dinner with you, kissed you goodnight, and, as always, read Sleeping Beauty to you before tucking a blanket over your shoulders and turning off the light.

“Sleep well, sweetheart.”

Her voice had sounded serene. Tired, perhaps, but serene nonetheless.

During the night, while the house remained silent, her heart stopped beating. There was no sudden pain, nothing that woke her. Her breathing grew softer and softer, gradually fading into an eternal sleep.

The next morning, your father found her exactly as she had gone to bed: peaceful, her features relaxed as though she were still sleeping.

A sleeping beauty.

The dawn streamed through the window, bathing the room in golden light that made it impossible to tell that anything had changed. Your father had called out to her. A soft “darling” slipped from his lips as he tried to wake her with kisses pressed to her cheeks and jaw, but she did not stir.

Your father did his best to explain that your mother had died. He tried to put the concept of death into words as best he could, telling you that she would never wake up again.

“Mama... she isn't going to wake up, Y/N.”

“Like in Sleeping Beauty?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Just like in Sleeping Beauty.”

Your innocent comparison served as a balm to his grief.

“Then why don't you kiss her? That way Mama will wake up from her eternal sleep!”

Silence followed your question.

The funeral was held the following day. The sky was covered by a blanket of gray clouds, and the air carried that strange stillness that seems to surround places where people gather to say goodbye. Family members, friends, and neighbors stood there dressed in black or keeping silent.

The casket rested at the front of the room, surrounded by white flowers. On its lid sat a photograph taken years before. A simple picture in which she smiled naturally.

The very same smile she had given to everyone.

At ten years old, many things were difficult to understand. Adults hugged you, stroked your hair, and surrounded you with a constant whirl of “Everything will be alright” and “I'm sorry for your loss, little one.”

Sorry for your loss?

What loss?

Mom was alive. She was only sleeping, just as Aurora had after pricking her finger on the cursed spindle. All she needed was a kiss from her Prince Charming to wake up. If Dad's lips met hers, the curse would be broken.

Only when they lowered her into the grave did you finally understand the gravity of the situation.

Mom wasn't coming back.

Mom was dead.

Mom would remain a sleeping beauty forever.

Heavy tears slid down your rosy cheeks as the realization drowned every corner of your mind. And while all of this was happening, while you finally surrendered to your tears, Valarr remained by your side.

—

Your birthdays had always been difficult since your mother's death.

It didn't matter how many years passed, or how many candles stood atop the cake. There was always a small, quiet moment when you found yourself wondering what it would have been like to hear Mom sing Happy Birthday to you.

Grief was your faithful companion. The two of you walked hand in hand wherever you went.

That was why Dad tried so hard.

A little too hard.

For your sixteenth birthday, he had organized an extravagant celebration. The garden was draped in golden lights, tables adorned with flowers, and long garlands hung from the trees. He had hired musicians, cooks, and even called the family photographer to immortalize the evening.

Everything was perfect. Or as perfect as it could possibly be.

"What do you think?" Dad asked as the two of you watched the final preparations from the terrace.

A soft smile curved your lips.

"It's beautiful."

The look of relief that crossed his face made your heart ache. This party was no different from all the others, just like all the comforts and possessions your father surrounded you with: means to an end. An attempt to fill the void your mother's death had left behind.

Guests began arriving at seven in the evening. You arrived thirty minutes later, and had barely managed to greet three guests when a familiar voice spoke from behind you.

“You're late to your own party.”

You turned around.

Valarr.

Of course it was Valarr.

He was dressed impeccably, a small box wrapped in blue paper resting in his hands. A smile immediately spread across your face.

“You’re here.”

“Of course I am.”

As though there had ever been a possibility that he wouldn't be.

He held out the box to you.

“It’s not time to open presents yet.”

“This one's an exception.”

You rolled your eyes, but accepted the package anyway.

“You’re impossible.”

“I know.”

—

The first barrier came about an hour later.

By then, the sun had long disappeared beneath the horizon, leaving the garden bathed in the warm glow of hundreds of fairy lights. Music drifted through the air, mingling with the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Waiters moved between guests carrying silver trays, and somewhere near the fountain a group of younger children were chasing one another beneath the lanterns.

For the first time that evening, you felt relaxed. Your father was occupied speaking with relatives, photographer was busy gathering guests for pictures.

No one seemed to need anything from you.

You were simply enjoying yourself.

You were standing with a small group of classmates when Zack approached. You knew him well enough. He sat two rows behind you in class, occasionally partnered with you during projects, and had the kind of easy confidence that made people naturally gravitate toward him.

He smiled when he reached your group. Not the polite smile people had been giving you all evening. A genuine one. One directed entirely at you.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” You responded in the same friendly tone you had used with everyone else.

“Having fun so far?”

You laughed softly. “I think so.”

“I'll take that as a yes.” His smile widened. Then, after a brief pause: “Would you like to dance?”

For a moment, you simply stared at him. Not because the question was inappropriate. Quite the opposite. It was perfectly normal. People danced at birthday parties. Still, you felt a sudden warmth spread across your chest.

Sixteen.

Perhaps it was silly, but a small part of you liked being asked. Liked being chosen. Liked feeling like an ordinary girl at an ordinary party.

“Sure.”

Zack's expression brightened immediately. He had barely begun to offer his hand when a his voice spoke from behind you.

“I didn't know you danced.”

The warmth vanished almost instantly. You turned around. Valarr stood only a few feet away. You hadn't even noticed him approaching. One hand rested loosely around a glass, the other tucked into his pocket. His posture was relaxed, his expression calm. He looked completely at ease. As though he had simply wandered into the conversation by accident.

“I dance,” you replied.

“Really?”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. The gesture was subtle. Barely noticeable. Yet somehow it made you feel as though you had said something surprising.

“Sometimes.”

“Huh.” He took a small sip from his drink.“I could've sworn you hated crowds.”

You frowned. “I don't hate crowds.”

“No?” His tone remained light. Conversational.

“I remember last year's party. You spent most of the evening complaining about how many people were there.”

Zack chuckled awkwardly. “Well, we don't have to disappear for long. Just one dance.”

“If she lasts that long.” Valarr added softly. The kind of words that sounded harmless. Friendly, even. The sort of joke that shouldn't have bothered you. And yet something tightened inside your chest.

Not because of what he'd said. Because of how quickly the mood had changed.

Moments ago, the conversation had feltexciting. Now it felt as though someone had opened a window and let cold air rush inside.

“Valarr,” you said.

He looked at you. “What?”

There was no challenge in his voice. No hostility. Just confusion. As if he genuinely didn't understand why you were looking at him that way. He hadn't done anything wrong, hadn't insulted Zack. Hadn't told you not to dance. Hadn't made a scene. He had simply inserted himself into the moment. Somehow the moment no longer belonged to you.

Zack glanced between the two of you. The hesitation was brief. Almost imperceptible. But you saw it.

“Maybe later,” he said eventually.

“Oh.” Disappointment slipped out before you could stop it. “Yeah. Maybe later.”

That later never came. Not during the party, not after.

The second sign came during university.

By then, several years had passed since your sixteenth birthday party. The world had changed in countless small ways. Childhood had become something distant, softened by time and memory, while adulthood lingered just beyond the horizon, close enough to touch yet still difficult to grasp. University was supposed to be the beginning of that transition. A place where people discovered who they were outside the expectations of their families, where they formed new friendships, made mistakes, and slowly built lives that belonged entirely to them.

The campus itself seemed designed for reinvention. Ancient stone buildings towered over sprawling courtyards, their walls draped in ivy that had survived generations of students. During the mornings, the pathways filled with the sounds of hurried footsteps and overlapping conversations. The scent of coffee drifted from cafés tucked between academic halls, while groups of students gathered beneath old oak trees to review notes or simply enjoy the brief moments between lectures. There was life everywhere. Endless movement. Endless possibility.

For the first time in years, you found yourself existing in a place untouched by your mother's memory. That realization struck you more often than you liked to admit.

She had never seen these buildings. Never walked these pathways. Never helped you choose your classes or listened to you complain about difficult professors.

University represented a chapter of your life that belonged solely to you, and sometimes that thought felt liberating. Other times, it felt unbearably lonely.

Valarr understood that loneliness better than anyone.

Or at least, he liked to believe he did.

Throughout your childhood, he had always been there whenever grief resurfaced unexpectedly. When anniversaries became difficult. When birthdays hurt more than they should. When a memory appeared without warning and left you unable to focus on anything else. He never missed those moments. Never overlooked them. Never allowed anyone else to reach them first.

At the time, you considered that devotion. Years later, you would recognize something else hidden beneath it.

Need.

A profound need to be the one who saved you. The one who understood you. The one you turned to. Every single time.

You met Helaena halfway through your second year.

The encounter itself was remarkably ordinary, the type of interaction most people would forget within days.

You had arrived early for a literature seminar and settled onto a bench near one of the university's gardens. Autumn had begun to settle over the campus, painting the trees in shades of amber and gold. Dry leaves gathered along the pathways, shifting whenever a breeze crossed the grounds.

You were reviewing notes when someone stopped in front of you.

"Is this seat taken?"

You looked up.

The young woman standing there held several books against her chest. A few loose papers threatened to slip from beneath her arm, and her expression carried the familiar exhaustion of someone who had been running between classes all morning.

"No."

"Perfect." She sat beside you with visible relief. For several moments, neither of you spoke. Then she glanced toward the book in your hands.

"Professor Beesbury assigned that too?"

You laughed. And somehow, that was all it took. The conversation unfolded naturally after that. Not forced. Not awkward. Easy. Comfortable.

You discovered shared interests. Similar professors. Similar frustrations. The two of you exchanged observations about classes, complained about assignments, and laughed about things that probably weren't as funny as they seemed in the moment.

When the seminar finally began, you found yourself disappointed, which surprised you, because it had been a long time since meeting someone new had felt effortless.

The friendship developed gradually afterward. You studied together. Shared meals between lectures. Spent afternoons in the library discussing books neither of you actually needed to read. For the first time since arriving at university, your world began expanding beyond the familiar boundaries it had always occupied.

And Valarr noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

Valarr noticed everything that concerned you, especially anything that threatened to become important.

The first time you mentioned Helaena, his reaction appeared perfectly harmless.

You were sitting together beneath one of the large oak trees near the central courtyard. Students moved around you in every direction, carrying books, coffees, and backpacks as they hurried toward afternoon lectures.

"Helaena and I spent three hours studying yesterday," you said.

Valarr smiled. "Helaena?"

"The girl I told you about."

Recognition flashed briefly across his features. "Right." A pause followed. Not uncomfortable, merely thoughtful. Then he asked: "do you trust her?"

The question caught you off guard. "What?"

He shrugged. "I'm just asking."

"Why wouldn't I?"

Valarr's gaze drifted toward the courtyard. "You trust people very easily."

You frowned. "No, I don't."

"You do."

His voice remained gentle. The tone someone might use while discussing a trait they found endearing.

"You always have."

The conversation might have ended there. Perhaps it should have. Instead, he continued. "I just don't want someone taking advantage of you."

The concern sounded sincere. Because it was sincere. That was what made it so effective.

Valarr genuinely believed you needed protection.

Genuinely believed the world was filled with people who would hurt you if he wasn't there to intervene. And every time he imagined that possibility, he became even more convinced of his own importance.

"You worry too much."

A faint smile touched his lips. "Someone has to."

The statement lingered with you long after the conversation ended. Not because it was alarming. Because it felt comforting. Being cared for always does.

Over the following months, similar conversations became increasingly common.

Whenever Helaena disappointed you in some small, ordinary way, Valarr noticed. Whenever she arrived late, forgot a message, cancelled plans, disagreed with you. Valarr was there, not criticizing her, not directly, simply helping you interpret events.

"She probably didn't mean anything by it."

"Maybe she's having a difficult week."

"Still, I wish people were more considerate of you" or "you always give so much to other people" and "sometimes I worry she doesn't appreciate you the way they should."

Every observation framed you as someone vulnerable, someone in need of protection, someone whose feelings required defending, and Valarr always positioned himself as the person willing to do it. The protector. The rescuer. The only one paying attention.

Over time, a subtle imbalance formed.

You began viewing your interactions through his perspective. Not because he demanded it. Because he taught you to. Every disappointment became evidence that others might not care as much as he did. Every misunderstanding became proof that he understood you better than anyone else. Every friendship quietly competed against an impossible standard.

After all, no one could ever match someone who had dedicated years to making himself indispensable.

And without realizing it, you began pulling away from Helaena. Not because of anything she had done. Because Valarr had slowly convinced you that the safest place in the world was beside him, exactly where he wanted you.

—

The café sat just beyond the university gates, tucked between a bookstore and a florist. It had become one of your favorite places over the past few months. The coffee was decent, the pastries were overpriced, and the windows overlooked a narrow street lined with old trees whose leaves had begun turning gold with the arrival of autumn.

You and Valarr had spent nearly two hours there mostly talking or rather, he had spent most of that time listening. Listening as you described your classes, your professors, your frustrations with upcoming exams.

Listening as you spoke about Helaena.

You didn't notice the way his expression subtly tightened whenever her name surfaced in conversation. You didn't notice because he was very good at hiding it, years of practice had taught him how.

When the two of you returned to campus, evening had settled over the grounds. Students crossed the pathways in small groups, carrying books beneath their arms and cups of coffee between their hands. The air had grown colder, and a faint breeze followed you all the way back to the dormitories.

Your room greeted you with familiar warmth.

The lamp on your desk cast a soft amber glow across the walls, illuminating stacks of books and scattered notes from classes you should probably have been studying for.

Valarr dropped into the chair beside your desk as if he belonged there. He did. He had spent so much time in your room over the years that his presence no longer felt unusual.

A comfortable silence settled between you. You kicked off your shoes and stretched. "I'm taking a shower."

Valarr nodded. "Take your time."

You disappeared into the adjoining bathroom moments later. The sound of running water soon filled the room.

Valarr remained seated. For a while, he did nothing. He told himself that was what he was doing.

His gaze wandered. The bookshelf. The photographs pinned above your desk. The abandoned notebooks. Then his eyes settled on your phone.

The device rested carelessly beside a stack of papers, unattended, unlocked, inviting. The screen briefly illuminated as a notification appeared.

A message.

Valarr's gaze lingered. Just for a second. Then another.

A familiar feeling began stirring inside him. Concern. At least, that was the word he preferred. Others might have called it control. Possessiveness. Obsession.

Valarr called it concern. Because concern sounded noble. Concern sounded protective. Concern sounded like love.

The bathroom door remained closed. Water continued running. Slowly, he reached for the phone, his movements were calm, methodical, practiced, as though he were conducting an inspection rather than violating someone's privacy. That was how he framed it in his mind. An inspection. A precaution. Making sure everything was alright. Making sure nobody was taking advantage of you. Making sure you were safe.

The message that had appeared belonged to someone unfamiliar. A male classmate. Valarr opened the conversation and his expression darkened almost immediately.

Nothing explicit greeted him. Nothing romantic. Nothing inappropriate by any reasonable standard. Yet the familiarity bothered him. The ease. The comfort. The frequency.

Several weeks of messages stretched before him. Jokes. Late-night conversations. Plans to meet after lectures. A photograph. Another joke. More messages. Too many messages. Far too many.

The bathroom door opened.

Valarr barely had enough time to place the phone back on the desk before you emerged.

Your hair was damp, a towel rested around your shoulders. You didn't need to cover yourself; the only one there was Valarr, your best friend.

You immediately noticed something strange.Valarr looked upset. Not angry, upset.

"What happened?"

He remained silent for a moment. Then: "Who's Spencer?"

You blinked.

"What?"

"Spencer."

Your stomach tightened.

The question itself wasn't alarming. The fact that he knew the name was.

"Why?"

Valarr leaned back in his chair. Too casual. Far too casual.

"You seem to talk to him a lot."

The realization struck immediately.

"You went through my phone."

His jaw tightened. Not with guilt, with irritation. As though you had focused on the wrong part of the conversation.

"I asked who he is."

"You looked through my phone."

"You left it sitting there."

The words left his mouth so naturally that for a moment you simply stared.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I was making sure everything was alright."

A laugh escaped you.

Disbelieving.

"You were making sure everything was alright?"

"Yes."

"By reading my messages?"

His expression hardened, only slightly.

"You don't know him."

"Neither do you."

"Exactly."

The answer came immediately. Too immediately. As if it proved his point.

You folded your arms. "He is a classmate."

"A classmate you talk to every day."

"So?"

"So?"

The repetition carried enough disbelief to make your pulse quicken.

"You've known him for what? A few months?"

"What does that matter?"

Valarr rose from his chair and the room suddenly felt smaller, as if the walls were shrinking.

"You trust people too easily."

"There it is."

His brows furrowed. "There what is?"

"That thing you always do."

"What thing?"

"You act like everyone is dangerous except you."

Silence followed, a heavy silence. Valarr's expression shifted. Not anger. Hurt or something designed to resemble hurt.

"You think that's what I'm doing?"

"I think you had no right to read my messages."

"I was worried."

"You were snooping."

His jaw clenched. "I was trying to protect you." The words emerged sharper this time, more emotional, more genuine. Because beneath everything else, Valarr truly believed them.

The realization frightened you. Not because he was yelling. He wasn't. Not because he was threatening you. He wasn't. It frightened you because he honestly couldn't see the difference, couldn't understand why reading your private conversations might be wrong, couldn't understand why his need to protect you did not automatically grant him access to every part of your life.

For several moments neither of you spoke.

Then Valarr exhaled heavily. His voice softened. "You know what happened after your mother died."

You froze.

There it was.

The weapon he rarely used. Not because it was ineffective. Because it was devastatingly effective.

"You know people took advantage of you."

"Valarr—"

"You know they did." His eyes never left yours. "And somebody had to look out for you."

The room suddenly felt very quiet. Very small.

"I never asked you to." The words emerged barely above a whisper.

For the first time that evening, something flickered across his face. Not anger. Not sadness. Fear, raw and ugly. The fear of someone whose entire identity depended on being needed, and who had just been told he wasn't.

"You don't mean that."

Valarr's response came so quickly that it almost felt rehearsed. For a moment, he simply stared at you from across the room, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and frustration. Then he let out a short laugh and shook his head.

"No," he repeated, softer this time. "You don't."

The certainty in his voice made something tighten painfully inside your chest. It wasn't the dismissal itself that bothered you. It was the assumption behind it. The unwavering belief that he understood your own thoughts better than you did.

"I do," you replied.

Again, he shook his head. "You're angry."

"And?"

"And you're saying things you don't actually believe."

A bitter laugh escaped you. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Act like you know what's going on inside my head."

Valarr's expression softened immediately. The change was subtle but familiar. It was the same look he always gave you whenever he thought you were being unreasonable. The same look he used when trying to calm you down after an argument, after a nightmare, after one of the countless moments in your life when grief had gotten the better of you.

"I'm not acting," he said quietly. "I've known you for years."

"That doesn't mean you get to decide what I think."

"No. But it means I know when you're hurting."

The words settled heavily between you.

He wasn't shouting.

Wasn't angry.

If anything, his voice sounded gentler than before.

That somehow made it worse.

Valarr never approached conflict head-on. He wrapped himself in concern. In understanding. In patience. Every disagreement became proof that he cared more than everyone else.

"I said I never asked you to do any of this."

Something flickered behind his eyes again. Fear. Gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

"Yes, you did." The answer caught you completely off guard. "You just never said it."

A hollow feeling opened in your stomach.

Valarr took a slow step forward, his gaze never leaving yours.

"You never asked for help after your mother died either."

Immediately, your jaw tightened.

"Don't."

But he continued.

"You never asked anyone to stay with you after the funeral. You never asked anyone to sit with you when you couldn't sleep. You never asked anyone to make sure you were okay."

"Valarr."

"You never asked."

His voice remained calm. Measured. Almost gentle. As though he were explaining an obvious truth.

"And yet somebody had to."

For a brief moment, neither of you spoke.

You hated that your mind immediately supplied memories. The funeral. The birthdays. The nights when grief arrived without warning and left you unable to breathe. Through all of it, Valarr had been there.

He knew exactly which memories would surface. Exactly which wounds still ached. And he wasn't above using them.

"You don't get credit for doing something nobody asked for." The words came out sharper than you intended. Something shifted in his expression. A tiny fracture in the calm composure he'd maintained all evening.

"No?"

His voice had gone quieter.

More dangerous.

"You think anyone else would've done it?" You stared at him.

"Perdon me?"

"You heard me."

Valarr looked away briefly before laughing under his breath. The sound carried no humor whatsoever.

"You think people stayed because they cared?" he asked. "You think they understood what you were going through?"

"Stop."

"You think Helaena understands?"

His gaze returned to yours.

"Do you think she would sit beside your bed when you couldn't sleep? Do you think she'd drop everything the moment you called?"

"Stop."

"What about your classmates? Your friends? This Spencer you keep texting?"

The mention of his name made your stomach twist.

"They aren't me."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. The instant they did, silence fell. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. Valarr's expression tightened. As though he'd revealed more than intended. Then he exhaled slowly.

"You don't understand." His voice sounded tired now. Almost pleading. "I'm the only person who actually worries about you." You felt your pulse quicken.

"No."

"I am."

"No."

His eyes searched yours desperately. "Who else is paying attention?" The question lingered in the room.

And for the first time since the argument had begun, you realized that this wasn't really about your phone, or Helaena, or Spencer, or any of the people Valarr disliked. This was about something much deeper. Something uglier. Valarr needed to be needed. He needed to be the person who stayed. The person who protected. The person who mattered most. And the possibility that someone else might become important to you terrified him more than he would ever admit.

"Answer me, Y/N. Who else pays attention to you? Who else cares? Who? Who? Who else but me?"

No one.

No one stayed the way Valarr did. No one else brought you coffee in the mornings when sleep still clung to your eyes. No one wished you goodnight with a kiss to the center of your cheek the way your mother once had. No one had memorized your freckles as though they were the most beautiful map in the world.

No one.

No one.

Only Valarr.

Always Valarr.

He cupped your face gently between his hands, and with a deliberate movement, he pressed his lips against yours. A hum escaped his throat. Content. Satisfied. As if he had waited years to taste your full lips, he did, and the taste had him hooked.

You bit his lip in utter disgust. It didn't matter. With the necessary strength of his limbs, he laid you down on the bed, immediately placing all his weight on you, and forcing himself between your legs, he opened his knees to gain access to your center. There you felt it, his hard erection rubbing against your covered sex.

"Stop, please" you whimpered as he kissed your neck, parting down to your collarbones. This was his heaven. The silky skin against her lips turned him into an animal.

"Who, darling, who takes care of you like I do?" He kissed the center of your cheek. "No one. No one will do it like I do."

You didn't measure time when he snatched the towel from your body, you didn't notice when he lowered his pants, but when he rubbed his naked cock against the his lips of your pussy, you couldn't help but moan. And the roar you let out when his phallus violated your walls in two. A painful burning sensation immediately invaded you; your body rejected it, repelled it. It was a parasite.

Valarr's groan, on the other hand, was pure ecstasy. "God... You're so tight," he said, his warm tongue licking your salty, heavy tears.

"So wet" was a lie. You were so dry you could feel every tiny detail of his cock, how it moved, how it mercilessly thrust in and out of your cunt. Valarr mistook your trembling for pleasure, your sounds for ecstasy.

The bed creaked with intensity. His mismatched eyes observed every contortion of your face, the way you bit your lower lip, the involuntary sway of your hips. He groaned hoarsely, lowering his hand to your clitoris. Your hole squeezed him. "Yes, just like that," he gasped, closing his eyes. "Knew you needed me."

His cock began to throb inside you. "No—don't come inside!" Even hitting his lower back couldn't get him to move. It was in the morning, when you woke up with his seed between your thighs and his arm wrapped around you, making sure that you both became one, that you saw the barriers that stood in your way.

"I was trying to help," his excuse sounded weak against your hair.

At that moment you wanted to be your mother.