It had started years ago, innocently enough. You had always loved words, books, stories, the way sentences could pull you into another world and never let you go. And when Jimin's novels appeared on your shelf, you didn't just read them; you memorized them. Every turn of phrase, every description, every dialogue. You weren't obsessed, not at first, just... captivated.

He was a mystery then, unreachable behind the ink and paper. But the more you read, the more you felt him in your mind. A presence you didn't understand, but could not ignore. And somewhere in the quiet of your room, a part of you whispered: I wish I could meet him.

Years later, that wish came in the form of a letter. Elegant handwriting on heavy cream paper, no return address, just your name at the top. "Come. I need to show you something. Tonight. Alone."

You hesitated. Your heart raced. Something in your gut said danger, yet curiosity, a reckless, headlong curiosity, won. And so you went.

The house was secluded, almost lost in the woods that surrounded it. Even the driveway seemed to swallow your car whole. The front door opened before you could knock. He was there. Taller than you imagined, broader in shoulders, face partially shadowed by the dim light.

"Y/N," he said, voice low, controlled, almost reverent. "You came."

You nodded, unable to speak. Your fingers gripped your bag, knuckles white.

"Follow me," he instructed. And you did, though every step echoed in the cavernous hallway.

The study was immaculate, lined with books from floor to ceiling. A single lamp cast a warm, golden glow. The scent of old paper and ink mingled with something darker—cologne, perhaps, or the faint tang of danger. He motioned to a chair. "Sit."

You did, and the air shifted.

He moved behind you slowly, so deliberately that you felt every inch of space between you shrink. "You've read my words," he murmured, close to your ear. "You know my thoughts. Yet you don't know me."

You swallowed. "I—"

"Shh," he cut you off softly, a hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your cheek. "Not yet. Let me show you first."

His gaze swept the room, landing on a stack of papers. Sketches. Manuscripts. Each one detailed you—your face, your hands, the way you tilted your head when you read his work. Every detail captured, immortalized.

"You've been in my head long before I was in yours," he admitted. A dangerous smile tugged at his lips. "I wanted to know if the real you matched the one I imagined."

Your breath hitched. "Why... why me?"

"Because you're honest," he said simply. "Because you don't pretend. You feel. You see. Not like the others." His hand rested on the back of your chair now, brushing your shoulder, almost claiming.

You shivered, both from fear and something darker, something magnetic. "And now?" you whispered.

"Now," he murmured, leaning closer until you could feel the heat radiating off him, "I want you to stay. Here. With me."

Your heart hammered, trapped between anticipation and panic. "Stay...? Why?"

Jimin's lips hovered near your ear. "Because I've been watching you, Y/N. Every word you read, every breath you took. And I... I can't let you go."

Silence fell heavy in the room, thick with tension, with unspoken promises and veiled threats. You could feel his eyes on you, the way they dissected you, marking your reactions. And though fear coursed through your veins, something deeper, darker, stirred: fascination.

"I... don't know what to say," you admitted, voice barely a whisper.

"You don't need to," he said. One hand slid to your arm, brushing gently but possessively. "Not yet. Just feel. Watch. Listen. Understand that you're mine in ways you don't even realize."

The study, once a sanctuary of words, had become a cage of anticipation. And you understood something terrifying: the predator you had imagined through his novels was real, and he was closer than you had ever dared to dream.

"Do you understand?" His voice, low and measured, was more commanding than gentle.