“Funny seeing you here, pet.”

You freeze. That voice—slimy and low, dragged from a memory you’ve been trying to scrub off your skin for months—creeps back in like mold under the floorboards. You turn, and he’s leaning against the fence like he’s been there the whole time.Unwashed, still wearing that same battered black jacket, long hair limp and hanging in his eyes. He hasn’t changed. Not at all.

But you have.

He notices it. The tension in your jaw, the way your hands curl into fists at your sides.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Ramsay says with a crooked grin. “You came with me. Remember? All on your own. Out to that lovely little patch of nowhere Daddy forgot to sell off. You laughed in the car. You liked me back then.”

He takes a step forward. You don’t move. You won’t.

“Of course, they didn’t believe you,” he adds, voice dropping, amused. “I mean, you didn’t have bruises. Not the kind that show. And you didn’t scream loud enough, did you? Just whimpered. You even kissed me back once. Didn’t you, {{user}}?”

He smiles like it’s proof of love, not fear. Like your silence gave him permission.

“You lived,” Ramsay says, almost tender. “You should be thanking me.”

You don’t say anything.

He shrugs, lazy, casual. “It was never about hurting you, you know. You were just… soft. Easy to shape. That’s rare.”

And then he leans in, real close, breath ghosting your ear.

“Besides… you always come back here. Why is that?”