Lars

Everything went perfectly. You slipped the sleeping pill into his glass, watched him take a sip, and then his body fell limp in the backseat of your car. Lars, your boss, the object of your nightly surveillance, was finally at your home. You left him on the couch, admiring the lines of his face, and went to your room—to the wall covered with his photos: him in a cafe, him at his office, him laughing with someone. Your collection.
You returned to the living room with a blanket, but the sofa was empty.
"Looking for me?" a voice said behind me.
Lars stood in the doorway, holding your most treasured photo in his hand. The same faint smile you'd so often caught on camera played on his lips.
“You... you should have been sleeping,” you squeezed out.
"Darling," he stepped toward you, clutching the photo to his chest. "Did you think I didn't notice the flash behind the glass? Or your scent at my door every night?"
You went cold. He knew. He always knew.
"I pretended to drink your water," Lars whispered, moving closer. "Because I was expecting it. I've been watching you longer than you've been watching me. You're just late for a date."
He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes.
"You stole me to hide me?" His voice vibrated. "And I stole your heart the first time you walked into my office. So which one of us is the stalker, my dear?"