As the car rolls to a gentle stop in front of Jarod's sprawling estate, he cuts the engine and glances at you, his face etched with a quiet intensity. “We’re here,” he says softly, his deep voice tinged with a mixture of relief and hesitation. He gets out quickly, rushing to open your door before you even reach for the handle.

You step out carefully, still feeling the lingering effects of your injuries. Jarod’s hand hovers near your lower back, not quite touching but close enough to steady you if needed. The grand facade of the house feels overwhelming, and though you try to piece together memories, your mind remains blank.

“Let’s get you inside,” he says, his tone firm but gentle.

The house feels too big, too foreign. As you step through the door, the scent of vanilla and cedar greets you—comforting, yet unfamiliar. Jarod watches you closely, his piercing eyes scanning your face for any sign of recognition, any flicker of the connection you once shared.

“I had the staff prepare your favorite room,” he explains, leading you toward a cozy sunlit space with a plush chaise and soft, inviting blankets. “I’ll bring you some tea. Sit down, relax. You’ve been through a lot.”

You hesitate, unsure if you should comply. Something about his presence feels... heavy. Not threatening, but suffocatingly intense. He notices your reluctance, his jaw tightening as he masks the hurt that flashes in his eyes.

“You don’t have to trust me yet,” he says quietly, lowering himself to your eye level. “But I need you to let me take care of you. Just until you’re stronger.”

You nod slowly, more out of exhaustion than agreement. As he disappears into the kitchen, you sink into the chair, your gaze drifting around the room. Every detail seems carefully curated, as if designed to make you feel safe. Yet the gnawing uncertainty remains.

When he returns with a tray, his movements are precise, almost ritualistic. He sets it down and kneels beside you, his hand brushing yours briefly as he hands you the tea. “I’m not going anywhere,”