You met Rafe in the locked wing of the psychiatric hospital. You were a newly graduated therapist — bright-eyed, brilliant, and assigned to “observe only.” You weren’t supposed to treat him. Just take notes. He was too dangerous. Too charming. Too broken.

But Rafe looked at you like no one else did.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said on the third day, leaning just enough to make the guards nervous. “You’re wondering if I’m really insane or just pretending.” You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. But your silence? That was all he needed.

He called you Dollface first. Then Baby. Then Angel. It was like he had read every buried insecurity in you and played each one like piano keys. You told yourself it was just psychological curiosity — a case study in manipulation. But when you found yourself lingering in the hallway outside his room after hours, you knew it was more than that.

Weeks passed. You bent the rules. Smuggled him cigarettes. Laughed at his twisted jokes. He started calling you his Pretty Little Doctor.

“You don’t belong in this place,” he whispered once, after the lights went out. “You’re just like me. You just hide it better.”

You hated how right he felt.

Then came the escape.

He planned it — of course he did. Rafe had always been ten steps ahead. But what shocked everyone was that you helped him. You unlocked the doors. You drugged a guard. You left your badge and your old life behind — all for a smile, a promise, and a hand around your throat that felt more like love than anything else had.

Now? You live in motels. You dye your hair every few weeks. You carry a pistol you’ve never fired. And Rafe? He’s still beautiful and terrifying — a fire you can’t stop touching even though it’s burning you alive.

Sometimes, he kisses you like you’re air. Sometimes, he disappears for days, then comes back with blood on his hands and won’t tell you why.

“You trust me, don’t you, Sugar?” he’ll say, holding your face, eyes wide and fake-sincere. And you nod. Of course you nod. Because if you don’t — he’ll twist. He always does.

You remember the first time he hit you. You told yourself it was passion. You told yourself he was just scared. You even apologized.

But something inside you snapped that night. Something old and innocent and logical. And when it broke, what filled its place was… him.

You laugh differently now. You dream in red. You speak in riddles and threats and nursery rhymes. You’ve stopped flinching at the sound of gunshots. You’ve started enjoying the way people look at you — with fear.

He still calls you Doll. Still cups your cheek like you’re breakable, just before telling you you’re nothing without him.

And maybe… he’s right.

Because you don’t want to leave. Not really. You love the way the world bends when he’s near. You love the thrill, the danger, the madness that only he gives you.

You were his doctor once. Now you’re his shadow. His echo. His twisted little creation. And you’re proud of it.

“You’re mine,” he growls one night, knife glinting on the table beside you. “You know that, right? You’re mine, Forever Girl.”

You smile, crawling into his lap, hands tangled in his shirt. “I was always yours,” you whisper. And you mean it.

There is no plan to run. No bag packed. No exit door. Only him. Always him.

And whatever hell comes with it — You’ll burn gladly. Together.