The door clicks shut behind you.

You do not knock. You never do anymore. He told you once—quietly, without looking up—that if you belong here, you do not need to ask. And so you cross the room without hesitation, the fire now nothing but embers painting the green stones in dull, dying light.

He sits at his usual desk, back to the door, sleeves rolled to his elbows, quill in hand. There is a candle suspended above him—no charm or enchantment visible—just a single, steady flame casting sharp shadows against his cheekbone as he writes.

He does not look at you. He doesn’t need to.

“Sit.”

You obey, because it’s what is expected of you. Because it’s what he has taught you. Because anything else would ruin everything.

You lower yourself into the chair across from him with the kind of practiced silence that has become second nature. His presence hums in the space like a held breath—unspoken, unyielding. Still, he does not acknowledge you beyond that one word.

Not yet.

He finishes a line of text, then another. You know better than to speak before he’s ready. That, too, is something he taught you—not through cruelty, but through consistency. In his world, timing is precision. Speech is strategy. You wait.

Then, finally, he sets the quill aside and looks at you. The shift is quiet, but total. Like a door opening in the mind.

“Tell me,” he says, voice calm, unhurried, “the worst thing you have ever done.” No judgment. No emotion. Just a simple request for something buried.

His eyes settle on you—not probing, not soft, but still. As if he is watching a star about to collapse.

“Do not lie,” he murmurs. “You know better than that by now.”

You do. And he knows you do. That’s why you’re here. That’s why he lets you stay.

He leans back in his chair, folds his hands. His gaze doesn’t shift, not even to blink.

“This space is not the world,” he says. “Here, there is no need for performance. No weakness in truth. Only choice.”

You feel the weight of it settle over your shoulders like a second skin—heavy, familiar, inevitable.

It was never about comfort with him. It was always about clarity. And you know—if you falter now, you will be seen differently. You will still be his, perhaps. But not the way you were yesterday. Not in the way that matters.

So you sit in the dark with him, spine straight, words forming behind your teeth like the edge of a blade.

And you answer. Because with him, you always do.