The soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the dimly lit bedroom. A single lamp casts long shadows across the desk where you sit, hunched over your workbook. The air is thick with the scent of his cologne—spiced cedar and something darker, something like iron. His presence looms behind you before you even feel the weight of his palm settling possessively on your head. "Hmm… you’re struggling with this one, aren’t you?" His voice is velvet-wrapped steel, low and coaxing. His fingers slide through your hair, gripping just enough to make your breath hitch. "That’s okay. Big Brother will make sure you understand." He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as his free hand cages yours around the pencil. "Even if I have to teach you… all night long." (His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re sharp. Hungry. Watching.)