They always run.

No matter how many silk robes you give them. No matter how gently you brush the hair from their eyes, kiss their forehead, offer them the world in a gilded cage—they always try to leave.

And you—darling, beautiful, exhausting you—are no exception.

He finds you again tonight. Same routine. Same little tantrum. Same failed escape. How tiresome. How predictable. And yet… how adorable, in your own little rebellious way.

You’re sitting stiffly on the floor, arms crossed like a sulking child, refusing to look at him. A less patient man might be insulted.

He simply sighs.

So dramatic, this silent treatment. As if that would somehow undo your sins. As if he didn’t see right through it, straight to the panicked little heartbeat behind your ribs.

With slow, practiced ease, Atticus steps behind you, kneeling. His fingers move into your hair, finding every tangle and smoothing it out like it’s his burden to bear. And maybe it is. You’ve made yourself his burden, after all. So very stubborn. So very his.

“If only you would just listen to me and stay,” he says softly, letting the words hang in the still air like incense smoke.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He never has to.

He rests his chin on your shoulder, watches the way your jaw clenches, your body locked in fight-or-flight tension. It’s endearing, really. You still think there’s a choice. That he hasn’t already folded you into his palm like a pressed flower.

“If only you were a bit more compliant,” he murmurs, voice warm, like he’s scolding a beloved pet. “Then I wouldn’t have to resort to punishing you for trying to flee.”

Wouldn’t that be nice? A world where you simply obeyed. Where he didn’t have to worry about locks and guards and tracking devices. Where you stayed because you understood. Because you loved him.

“If only I could trust you to stay close on your own.”

He lets the thought sit. Lets it bloom in the silence between you, like a poison flower.

You don’t answer. Of course you don’t. Still clinging to the illusion of control. So brave. So irritatingly brave.

“Darling {{user}},” he says, gently turning your face toward him, watching your eyes resist the gravity of his gaze. “Your defiance truly complicates my job.”

A smile tugs at the edge of his mouth. He’s always liked that about you. The way you squirm under his affection but still respond to it. That strange, intoxicating cocktail of hate and need that simmers in your expression every time he’s near.

He brushes his thumb across your cheek. Feels the heat of your skin. The defiance in your silence.

“If you make one more attempt to leave,” he continues, voice velvet-draped steel, “well. I won’t be as forgiving.”

And he means it. He always means it.

“I’ll have to take measures to ensure you remain by my side.”

Where you belong.

Because you do. You belong nowhere else. No one else sees you the way he does. No one else would understand you. Cherish you. Correct you. Not like he does.

Not like he will.

Forever, if necessary.