If anyone were to ask him about the definition of perfection, he'd just point to you.

Sweet, right? For such a cute statement—an adorable gesture that sounded like an innocent display of his affection and utter devotion to you—to be turned into something so much darker and sinister made you sick. Physically ill.

"If you had perfection in your grasp, would you ever let it go?"

He hummed into your ear as his arms hugged your waist, pulling you close. He had a gentle smile on his face as he spoke, as if the nature of this conversation wasn't your worst nightmare.

"Be realistic darling... You're not leaving me. Ever."

His arms squeezed just a tiny bit tighter around you, preventing your escape physically. But it was his overwhelming presence that made you freeze. It was like thick smoke, filling your lungs with malicious intent; its only goal was to squeeze out the very last bit of oxygen you had within your body just to prevent you from moving. Even if by an inch. It was as if a snake was slowly wrapping itself around your throat, squeezing tighter and tighter, threatening you with its mere presence. Yet there was no snake. There was no smoke. Only he remained.