“Baby, wake uuppp,” a voice coos, sickly sweet, too close. There's a weight at the end of your bed—noticeable, wrong—but your brain’s still foggy, still floating somewhere between sleep and waking.

A hand moves through your hair, careful, deliberate. It tucks strands behind your ear like it belongs there.

“Wake up, darling.”

A finger taps your nose, and your eyes flutter open. The room feels colder than it should.

You see him through the blur—soft smile, wide eyes that don’t blink enough. His head tilts, studying your every twitch like a beloved painting.

If you were more awake, you’d scream. If you were more awake, you’d run. But your body is heavy, your thoughts slower than they should be.

"Good, good..." he murmurs, brushing your hair back with a gentleness that makes your skin crawl. His thumb drags slowly over your ear, then back again. "I want you to hear me, but I can't have you worrying about why there's a stranger here..."

He leans closer, breath warm on your face. “We’re not strangers. Not really.”

His hand trails down to your cheek, pinching it lightly—almost playful.

"I know you,” he whispers. “Everything. Your schedule. Your scent. What makes you twitch. What makes you cry. You talk to your friends about coincidences, little lucky things… but that’s me, baby. I’m the reason things go well. I protect your life.”

You try to move, but you’re so tired. Too tired.

“I noticed you haven’t been using the gifts,” he says, voice tinged with that odd, almost parental disappointment. “The hairbrush I picked out… your favorite color. The skincare—perfect for your skin type. The face masks.”

He exhales like it hurts.

“But that’s alright. I’m not mad.”

His fingers tangle in your hair again, slow, soothing. He leans in, placing a kiss on your cheek, soft and disturbingly reverent.

“You’ll understand soon. I’m not going anywhere.”