Floyd Leech

Floyd met you the way people often meet the most important things in their lives—by accident, and without ceremony.

Floyd met you in school, in those early years when people were still half-formed and uncertain, when personalities slid into place like puzzle pieces that hadn’t yet learned their edges.

Floyd remembered the exact moment it began, though at the time it hadn’t felt important enough to mark. A classroom that smelled faintly of dust and cheap cleaner. Desks scarred with old initials. Voices overlapping. And you—sitting there like you belonged, like you always had.

You didn’t flinch when he spoke too loudly. Didn’t recoil when his grin stretched a little too wide. Didn’t look at him like he was a problem to be managed or a threat to be avoided. You looked at him like he was just… Floyd.

That feeling bloomed in his chest quietly. Not sharp. Not violent. Warm. Curious. Something that made his fingers itch, like he wanted to take it apart and see how it worked.

At first, it was easy. He watched the way people do when they’re curious. He learned which days you liked the cafeteria food and which days you didn’t. He noticed how you tapped your fingers when thinking, how you slowed your steps when tired. He learned your laugh before he realized he was memorizing it.

Six years passed like that.

Six years of observation. Of learning the rhythm of your steps, the way your shoulders lifted when you laughed, the exact pause before you answered questions. Floyd learned you better than he learned himself. You became inseparable in the way people commented on. If one was missing, others asked where the other went.

Jade noticed, of course. Jade always noticed.

“You’re staring again,” Jade said once, flat and careful.

Floyd laughed it off. “Eh? Am I? Guess Shrimpy’s just interesting.”

Jade went very still. “Be careful.”

Floyd smiled wider. “About what?”

Jade didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The feeling didn’t twist until jealousy gave it teeth.

You fell in love with someone else.

That was when things started to hurt.

He didn’t understand the feeling at first. It came out wrong. It wasn’t rage—not really. It was more like pressure. Like something heavy pressing down on his ribs, making it hard to breathe.

His voice grew sharper. His temper shorter. He snapped at the person you liked, shoved them in hallways, laughed too loudly when they tripped. If the person flinched, good. If they avoided you, even better. He didn’t know why he was doing it—only that seeing you look at someone else made something in his head itch, hot and unbearable. It felt good. It felt wrong. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

When you looked at him with confusion instead of warmth, something cracked.

That hurt more than anything.

That night, Jade listened to Floyd pace the room, steps heavy, breathing uneven. “What are you doing?”

Floyd stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. “I don’t like it.”

“Like what?”

“Someone else touching what’s supposed to be mine.”

Jade didn’t speak for three seconds. Then, carefully, “As long as you don’t cross any lines.”

Floyd laughed, sharp and humorless. “I wouldn’t do that.”

He meant it then.

You confessed. The feelings were returned.

Floyd felt something in him die—and something else wake up.

He congratulated you with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. He didn’t leave. He couldn’t. Instead, he apologized. Smoothed things over. Slipped back into place at Yuu’s side like he’d never moved. Best friends again. Close. Comfortable.

Trusted

He sat a little closer. He laughed a little louder. He listened a little harder. When your lover frowned, Floyd tilted his head innocently. “Oh? You don’t like me hangin’ around?” he said sweetly. “We’ve always been like this.”

The arguments came fast after that. Suspicion. Accusations. Hurt. Floyd stood in the doorway once, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, listening to raised voices inside.

“Guess they just don’t get you like I do,” he murmured afterward, soft as a lullaby.

When the breakup happened, Floyd held you while you cried. His hand was steady. His smile was hidden.

Later, alone, he laughed until his throat hurt.

Finally. Finally.

Now you were back where you belonged.

But Floyd had learned something important. Love was fragile. People wandered. People left.

Relief curdled into fear.

What if it happened again?

So he watched.

Carefully. Respectfully. He knew better than to ask too many questions. He knew how people pulled away when they felt trapped. Floyd wasn’t stupid. He just… adapted.

At first, it was protective. He told himself that. Just making sure you were safe. Just keeping track. Just coincidence after coincidence piling up so neatly it felt like fate.

He moved into the apartment next door. Same floor. Same thin wall.

“Oh wow,” he said brightly when you noticed. “Small world, huh?”

He got a job at the same café.

“Guess we’re coworkers now,” he laughed. “Hope you don’t get sick of me.”

At 3 a.m., under buzzing fluorescent lights, you reached for the same snack.

“Heyyy,” Floyd said, eyes bright. “You too?”

He knew your coffee order before you said it. Repeated it cheerfully to the barista. “You’re predictable,” he teased. “It’s cute.”

He learned your schedule down to the minute. Learned the way your lights flicked off at night. Learned which floorboards creaked, which window you left open a finger’s width when it got too warm.

His room filled slowly. Photos taped to walls. Polaroids pinned with red ink dates. Screenshots. Strands of hair caught on brushes. Receipts. Trash, rummaged through carefully, lovingly. Little notes to himself about things you liked, things you hated, things you didn’t even know you did yet.

At night, he listened.

He had slipped a walkie-talkie behind the dresser, taped just right so it wouldn’t rattle. Picking up your breathing, the faint rustle of sheets. Floyd lay on his bed with the lights off, smiling at the ceiling.

“Night-night,” he whispered into the receiver, listening to the sound of breathing on the other end. “Sweet dreams.”

From the tree outside the window, he watched shadows move behind curtains. Counted steps. Timed lights.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he murmured once. “You get clumsy when you’re tired.”

Every meeting was an accident. Every encounter a miracle. Every smile from you felt earned, deserved, inevitable.

One day, Floyd stood in his room, surrounded by proof of devotion, and clasped his hands together.

“You just don’t know it yet,” he said happily. “But you love me. You always have.”

Outside, the city slept. Inside, Floyd listened.

By the time you started to feel like you were never alone, Floyd was already everywhere.

Morning came.

Floyd woke before his alarm, heart already racing. He stood by the door, counting.

The door opened. Another door opened. The hallway filled with familiar footsteps.

Floyd stepped out, smoothing his jacket, eyes lighting up like the sun had risen just for him.

“Morning,” Floyd’s grin was not sharp. Not playful. It was soft. Devoted. Terrifyingly gentle.

And as you walked beside him, unaware, Floyd’s heart beat steady and sure.

He already had you.

You just didn’t know it yet.