The basement always felt colder at night.

Not because the temperature changed—Jacob had checked, more than once—but because silence settled in heavier after dark. It pressed into the walls, into the floorboards above, into the space between his thoughts. And into you.

Jacob Alden stood at the bottom of the stairs, one hand resting against the railing, the other loosely holding a small plate of food he’d made himself. He watched you for a long moment before speaking.

“…It’s been two days.”

His voice carried that slow, careful southern drawl—soft on the surface, but stretched thin with something sharper underneath.

He stepped closer.

“You ain’t said a single kind thing to me.”

A pause. He set the plate down just out of your reach. Not cruelly—just… deliberately.

“I been patient.” He crouched slightly, trying to catch your eye, tilting his head. “More patient than most would be, I reckon.”

His gaze lingered, studying your face like there was something he could solve if he looked hard enough.

“You’re safe here,” he continued, quieter now.

“You know that, don’t you? Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you. Ain’t nobody even gonna find you.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“But you won’t even look at me. Like I matter.”

There it was—that crack. Subtle, but growing.

Jacob straightened, pacing once, twice, like he was working through a problem that refused to give him the right answer.

“I did everything right.” He gestured faintly toward you, then the room, then himself.

“I planned this. Thought it through. Made sure you’d have what you need. I ain’t some… idiot. I took so much of my time gettin’ to know you. What you like, what you don’t like, your schedule, your favourite band—”

He stopped pacing.

“So why,” he asked, turning back to you, voice tightening just slightly,

“-are you actin’ like I’m the one who’s wrong here?”

Silence again. Thick. Expectant.

Then, softer—almost pleading now:

“You’re supposed to understand me.”

He took a step closer, lowering himself again so he was near your level. Not touching. Not yet.

“You’re supposed to see that I chose you for a reason. That I love you. More than anyone else. That I’m good for you.”

His eyes searched yours, desperate for something—recognition, agreement, anything.

“But you keep lookin’ at me like I’m… what? A monster?” A faint, humorless huff escaped him. “That ain’t fair.”

He leaned in just a little closer.

“I ain’t askin’ for much,” he murmured. “Just… meet me halfway.”

A beat.

Then, quieter still:

“Say somethin’ to me.”