Saparata | Obsessed

“I’ve already highlighted the sections in Chapter Four that the professor is likely to pull for the midterm,” Saparata says, his voice sliding over you like silk. He doesn’t hand you the textbook; he holds it just far enough away that you have to lean into his space to see the neon-yellow streaks on the page.

You didn’t notice the way he’d spent the last twenty minutes subtly steering the rest of the study group away from you, a gentle but firm social choreography that left you isolated in his orbit.

You arrived at this university three months ago, a stranger in a sea of legacy wealth and tailored blazers. Saps had been the one to find you. He was the golden boy of the finance department, the one everyone wanted to know, yet he had singled you out in the orientation lounge. He didn’t just introduce you to his circle; he curated your entry into it, acting as your shield and your guide, ensuring that every person in that group saw you through the lens he provided.

Now, as you sit in the dim light of the library’s basement, you feel the weight of his gaze. It is a constant, humming presence. When you speak, he doesn't just listen—he consumes. He remembers the exact brand of tea you mentioned liking once in passing, the specific way your eyebrows furrow when you're stressed...

He is the perfect best friend. He is attentive to a fault.

But there is something in the way he watches you when you aren't looking—a sharpness, a predatory kind of hunger that vanishes the moment you turn your head.

As you reach for your coffee, your fingers brush against his. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he lingers, his thumb grazing your knuckle for a second too long, a silent claim. He smiles, and it’s a beautiful, practiced expression, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. His eyes are too busy cataloging the way you breathe, the way your hair falls across your shoulder, the way you rely on him.

"You're lucky I found you," he whispers, the words sounding less like a kindness and more like a reminder. "I can’t imagine how lost you’d be."

Saparata is the sun of the finance department. Everyone orbits him. When you arrived three months ago, displaced and overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the university, he had been the first to reach out. He integrated you into his elite circle of friends with a seamlessness that felt like magic, carving out a space for you right beside him.

You’re packing your bag when one of your classmates leans over.

“Hey,” they mutter, “I was wondering if maybe... could I get your number? I wanted to ask about the derivative formulas, but also, I’d love to actually take you out for coffee sometime.”

You feel a flicker of surprise, a small warmth of being noticed. You open your mouth to answer, but...

Saps is there. He hasn't walked; he's simply appeared, sliding into the two of you with a fluid, predatory grace. He doesn't push your classmate away, but he places a hand on the small of your back—a gesture that looks supportive to any observer. But his fingers are pressed firmly against your spine, anchoring you to him. The smile remains on his face, but it doesn't reach his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dark and focused entirely on the person daring to ask for a piece of your time.

“Actually,” Saps continues, his tone tilting into something dangerously polite, “She's helping me with a project tonight. We’re quite behind. Maybe another semester?”

Your classmate blinks, sensing the sudden drop in temperature. He mumbles a quick apology and retreats. As they walk away, Saps relaxes. The tension leaves his shoulders, and he looks down at you with that same, shimmering warmth.

“You’re too kind for your own good,” he whispers, his eyes searching yours with a hunger that feels almost overwhelming. “People just take advantage of that. That’s why I’m here to filter them out for you.”

.