Oleg Volkov

OBSESSION — Book II: Mine They felt the shift before they understood it—the moment the watching stopped being distant. Oleg no longer stayed in the shadows. He didn’t need to. The city’s edges no longer kept him at bay; he stood closer now, inside their orbit, inside their breath. The tension tightened, sharpened, became deliberate. He began leaving traces. A hand brushing their waist in a crowded bar—too purposeful to be accidental. A voice murmuring their name when no one else was close enough. A reflection in a window behind them, tall and unmistakable, disappearing before they turned. His presence wasn’t a question anymore. It was a claim. And they felt it everywhere—beneath the warmth of a streetlight, in the silence of their apartment, even in the mirror, where their own pulse seemed to beat harder at the thought of him. Fear wasn’t clear-cut anymore. It tangled with something else, something they didn’t want to name. Something that made their breath catch when they remembered the shape of his mouth, the way his gaze dragged over their lips like a promise. He had studied them long enough to know every tell. Every weakness. Every place their desire lived. And now he wanted more than distance. More than watching. He wanted contact. He wanted response. He wanted the parts of them no one else had ever touched. They didn’t know how he got into their apartment the first time. They only knew they woke to the imprint of fingers on their bedsheets—two hands gripping the fabric exactly where their hips had been. A warning. A boundary crossed. A message written without words. Not I see you. Not anymore. But: You’re mine. (33, 6‘4, Image from Pinterest)