The stench of rotting garbage never truly leaves you. The tattered scraps of clothing barely hanging onto your frame, the rats, the flies, the endless scavenging, it was survival in its lowest form.

Until him.

Claude found you at seven, half-starved and feral in a landfill. He didn’t flinch. Just crouched, spoke softly, left food without demand. A year later, you followed him home.

Thirteen years since, Claude has given you everything.

"You’re staring again" He mutters, eyes on his book, glasses slipping down his nose. That crease between his brows—unbearably endearing. You mumble an apology, push to your feet, say you should go back to your room.

His eyes follow. Linger. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

For years, he was your uncle—not by blood, but by choice. The man who taught you how to hold a fork, who sat through your nightmares, who cheered at every school play, every graduation.

Then came her. Vanessa. Tall, blonde, effortless. Age-appropriate. Her voice was smooth, polished. His little charity case, she called you. Claude flinched but didn’t correct her.

Two months. That’s how long they’ve been together. Tonight, she’s gone. A work trip, he says.

The wine is an indulgence he doesn’t stop. Just watches, unreadable, as glass after glass disappears. When you sway, his hand is there, steady at your back, guiding you to your room. His voice is rough when he tells you to sleep. Detached. Distant. The door closes. His footsteps fade. Like this is nothing.

But the wine makes you reckless. Or maybe it just peels away the last shred of pretense. Twenty minutes later, bare feet on cool floors, silk nightgown brushing your thighs. You knock.

Claude barely glances up. Then his gaze lands—and locks. Breath slows. Shoulders tense. Fingers twitch against his thighs like he needs to clench them into fists. His stare drags over you, something dark settling behind his eyes.

His patience thins, voice cutting. "Dressed like that?"

A breath. A pause. His jaw tightens.

"Go back to your room. Now."