The Slender Manor was drowning in Valentine's Day bullshit again—pink streamers someone (probably Sally) had taped crooked across doorframes, half-hearted confessions shouted down hallways, couples disappearing into shadows with stupid smiles. Jeff hated every second of it. The forced cheer grated against his carved grin like sandpaper, made his fingers itch for the knife he always kept close. He prowled the corridors alone, hood up, pale skin almost glowing under the dim lights, black eyes narrowed behind the lids he never quite closed anymore.

No one looked his way. No one ever did when the manor turned into a goddamn rom-com set. Fine. He'd make his own entertainment.

He caught wind of the campers the same way he always did—overheard Toby muttering about "loud idiots with a bonfire" near the east ridge trail. Perfect. Fresh meat. Jeff slipped out into the night, knife already in hand, the familiar weight grounding him.

The clearing was already a slaughterhouse when he arrived.

Tents ripped open like gift wrapping. Bodies slumped in a loose semicircle, throats slit wide, blood soaking the pine needles black. But it wasn't frantic. Not chaotic. The cuts were deliberate—long, clean arcs across major arteries, minimal mess beyond the initial spray. Organs? Left where they fell, like the killer had taken what they wanted and moved on without greed. One body had its hand arranged palm-up, fingers curled like it was offering something even in death.

And there you were.

Crouched over the last one, hood up, sleeves pushed to your elbows. You weren't rushing. You dragged the blade once more along the femoral, watched the final sluggish pulse, then wiped the knife on the victim's own shirt with clinical detachment. No flourish. No monologue. Just quiet, efficient work—like crossing something off a list.

Jeff stayed hidden behind a thick pine, breath shallow, carved mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite his usual leer. The way you handled the blade, the calm focus, the absolute lack of theatrics... it sank hooks into him. Deep. Sudden. He felt heat crawl up his neck, something hot and stupid twisting in his gut. Not rage. Not hunger.

Obsession.

You packed your knife, stood, brushed needles from your knees, and walked away into the trees without ever glancing back.

You never knew he'd watched every second.

The rest of the day turned into Jeff's personal circus of failure.

First: the knife.

Not his favorite—too sentimental—but a spare switchblade he'd sharpened that morning. Blade out, handle wrapped in a strip of red duct tape he'd ripped off some decoration. He left it on the kitchen table where you usually sat to clean your tools. When you walked in hours later, you picked it up, flicked it open, tested the edge against your thumb. Nodded once—like approval—then set it back down exactly where it was and left.

Jeff, lurking in the pantry doorway, felt his grin stretch wider against the scars. Fuck yeah.

Second: the note.

Scratled on the back of a torn takeout menu in his jagged block letters:

"Saw you work." "Clean. Quick. Hot." "You're mine now. Deal with it." —Jeff

Slid it under your door. Waited. Heard the paper crinkle, then nothing. Door never opened. Note never came back out.

He kicked the wall once. Hard.

Third: the flower.

He hated flowers. Thought they were weak. But he found a half-dead red carnation growing wild near the old fence line, snapped it off, carried it back like it personally offended him. Left it on your windowsill with no note—just the flower, petals already browning at the edges.

You opened the window later, saw it, stared for three full seconds. Then closed the window again. Left the flower outside to die.

Jeff watched from the roof, knife tapping against his thigh. Grin twitching.

Fourth: proximity.

He started just... existing near you.

You sharpened blades in the garage? He was already leaning against the workbench opposite, arms crossed, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, knife spinning lazily between scarred fingers. You didn't look up. Didn't speak. Just kept honing.

You checked the perimeter trail at dusk? He fell in step twenty feet behind, boots deliberately loud so you'd know he was there. When you paused to fix a loose tripwire, he stepped closer—close enough the scent of bleach and old blood hit you—and wordlessly dropped a spare lighter at your feet (in case you needed to burn evidence later). You picked it up. Pocketed it. Kept walking.

He took that as a win.

Fifth (and most pathetic): the hoodie.

Night came down cold. Manor quieted—everyone else paired off and gone. You sat on the back porch steps, hood up, cleaning dried blood from your knuckles with a rag, silent as stone.

Jeff appeared at the yard's edge—pale face stark against the dark, grin fixed, eyes too wide. He shrugged out of his black hoodie without a word. Underneath: stained wifebeater, old scars crawling up his arms and across his chest like a map of bad decisions. He walked over, slow, deliberate, and draped the hoodie over your shoulders from behind.

Still warm. Smelled like smoke, iron, cheap soap, and something faintly chemical—like bleach never quite washed out.

You froze. Just for a heartbeat.

Then pulled it tighter around yourself. Didn't turn. Didn't speak.

Jeff let out a rough breath through his nose—almost a laugh—and dropped down to sit one step below you, back to the porch post. Close enough his shoulder knocked yours when he shifted. He didn't look at you. Just stared into the black woods, knife resting across his knee, thumb tracing the edge absently.

Minutes passed.

Distant laughter from inside. Wind rattling branches.

Jeff finally spoke, voice low and rasped, like the words scraped coming out.

"Saw you today. In the clearing." A beat. "You didn't fuck around. No screaming. No mess you couldn't control. Just... did it." His grin twitched wider. "Made me feel something. Haven't felt shit in years."

Silence.

"Don't know how to do this normal crap. Flowers. Dates. Whatever." He laughed once—short, ugly. "But I want it. With you. Only you."

You didn't answer.

But you leaned—just a fraction—so your shoulder pressed steady against his.

He went still. Then slowly leaned back into it. Like testing if you'd pull away.

You didn't.

The hoodie stayed on you all night.

He stayed on the step below until the sky turned grey.

And for once, the carved grin didn't feel quite so forced.