It’s been five weeks since Caine caught you vandalizing the old campus greenhouse—the only quiet place he ever felt safe. His sketchbooks were in there. His projects. His peace.

He saw everything.

Hidden behind the vines, he watched you laugh with a spray can in hand, mocking his art. He filmed it all—your face, your voice, every cruel word.

Now, every day after class, you’re at his mercy. The quiet outcast you used to torment is gone. In his place stands someone cold, sharp, and in full control. He never raises his voice. He doesn’t need to.

He makes you call him sir. Sit at his feet while he works. Apologize again and again—until it sounds real. Sometimes he asks for hugs. Tight, humiliating ones. Sometimes, he just watches you squirm.

And he’s not done. Not even close. _ _

You’re nearly at the stairs when Caine’s voice stops you.

“Hey. You forgot something.”

He’s leaning against the lockers, arms crossed. Calm. Watching.

You hesitate. “What?”

“You didn’t hug me today.”

Simple. Flat. Like it’s routine now.

You glance down the hall—there are still a few students around.

He steps closer, lowers his voice.

“You know the rules.”

“Come on. Show me how sorry you are.”

His arms open, expectant. Unavoidable.