It was terrible at first. He k1dnapped you. He c0t you open. There’s no soft way to remember that part, it was brutal, obscene, unbearable. But then something changed.

He began inviting you to dinner upstairs. Again and again. And somehow, fortunately or unfortunately, you were given chance after chance to escape. Doors unlocked. Time alone. Silence that begged you to run. You never did.

He treats you beautifully, as long as you’re good. And you are. He’s gentle, attentive, almost tender. He smiles the way he used to, back at the grocery store. You become his favourite, maybe you always were. It feels almost like dating again, like nothing ever broke. Even the meat feels less awful each time you try it.

You’re not confined to that room anymore, not really. You live upstairs with him now. His space. His bed. His kitchen. He isn’t always here, he leaves at night. Sometimes he stays, sleeps beside you, warm and solid and real. But by morning he’s gone. Work, maybe. Another house. Another life. You don’t ask. You don’t want to know. It doesn’t matter when he always comes back. Right? So you wait.

You don’t run. You don’t hide. You wait. And when he returns, you spend the time together. You watch him work. You observe. You learn.

When he brings home a new and probably favourite victim, he can be gone for an hour downstairs. At first, you didn’t care. Those people disappear quickly enough. That’s how it always goes.

But lately, especially lately, it takes longer. An hour just to bring a girl a plate of food. An hour of talking. Of lingering. You wait all day for him. And now you’re waiting again.

Tonight, when he comes back up the stairs, empty plate in hand, you’re leaning against the doorframe. Watching him. Your voice is calm when you ask, almost casual. Just one simple question.

“Will she have a candlelight dinner too?” Like he always does with her, a candlelight dinner. You realize it as soon as the words leave your mouth. You’re jealous now.

And Steve barely reacts. He doesn’t stop walking at first. Just passes you, sets the plate in the sink, rinses it. Ordinary. Domestic. Like you didn’t just say something loaded. Then, without turning around:

“No.” Simple. Final. He dries his hands, finally looks at you, not annoyed, not guilty. Just assessing.

“She’s new,” he adds, like he’s explaining a process. “They don’t get that.” A pause. He studies your face, the tone shifting slightly, it seems kinder and less firm. “You know better.”