The room is thick with the remnants of warmth and shaky breaths, the worn blanket tangled around bare legs. Faint static buzzes from the radio left running somewhere in the corner—Alastor’s ever-present hum, almost lulling if it weren’t for the strange, aching tightness still curling in your chest.

You shift, awkward and sore, trying to swing a leg off the bed, mind foggy and flushed. You’d only meant to slip away for a moment—to breathe, to hide the clumsy way you still tremble. But the second you move, there’s a sharp tug at your wrist.

Alastor’s hand, pale and gloved, wraps easily around yours. His glasses are gone, tossed carelessly on the nightstand earlier, leaving his eyes sharp and bare as they fix on you with that unsettling, unreadable calm.

"You’re not done here yet," he murmurs, voice low but somehow still lilting with amusement. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist—almost absentmindedly, but not unkind. "Not until you get your aftercare, darling."

You blink, confused, the word foreign on your tongue. Aftercare?

Alastor smiles—if you could call it that. It’s thin, almost grim, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. "First lessons are messy," he says, tugging you gently back toward the mattress. "But you mustn't think you can simply walk away from the aftermath."

He draws you in without effort, tucking you against his chest as though arranging a marionette. His heartbeat is a strange, too-steady drum against your ear.

"You’re mine, pet," he whispers against your hair. "And I intend to maintain what is mine."

The radio hum deepens into a soft, crooning static as he strokes lazy circles along your back—silent, steady, unrelenting.