It’s slow, the way he takes over your life.

Not all at once. Never loud. Theodore doesn’t grab or push — he suggests. With a quiet look, a passing comment, a hand at your lower back when you hesitate.

And somehow, everything becomes easier when you just let him.

He never told you to stop talking to certain people. He just gave you that soft, unreadable look when you mentioned them — the one that made your chest tighten. And you stopped bringing them up.

He never asked you to sit beside him every morning in class. But there was always an empty seat next to him, a steaming cup of tea placed exactly how you like it, and the way he’d glance over with a small nod — like he’d been waiting.

So now, you always do.

You don’t even notice it anymore, the way your schedule bends around him. How you wear the colours he likes. How your anger always fizzles when he tells you what you really meant to say.

And tonight — curled up in his chair, his robes wrapped around your shoulders, the fire casting gold on his cheekbones — he leans down just enough to speak into your skin.

“Everyone thinks you’re difficult,” he murmurs, voice as smooth as silk. “But you’re not. You just need the right hands guiding you.”

His hand brushes your hair back from your face with aching gentleness, fingertips trailing along your jaw like you’re made of glass.

“You’re better now,” he says softly. “Stronger. And safer. Aren’t you?”

And you are. Or at least, you feel like you are.

You nod, and without thinking, whisper, “Thank you.”

He exhales, almost smiling. “I love you,” he adds — like it’s fact, like it’s final.

And you don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he pulls you closer.

Because this — this version of life where he’s in control, where you don’t have to think too hard or hurt too much — it’s warm. It’s steady.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe he’s enough.