You didn’t do affection.

Not properly. Not in the way other couples did—soft touches, whispered nonsense, any of that. You barely even liked each other half the time.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t something there.

That would’ve been ridiculous.

Theodore liked control. Quietly. Subtly. In the way he watched you, in the way he waited, in the way he could take your irritation and turn it into something else without ever seeming to try.

Especially when you’d been giving him attitude not even five minutes ago.

Like now.

You’d been annoyed—properly annoyed—sharp words, colder tone, and yet here you were, back against his headboard, the dark sheets creased beneath you, the greenish light from the lake flickering faintly across the room.

Somehow, he’d won again.

He always did.

His hand rested just beneath your skirt.

You allowed him.

Even as your fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, like you were holding him in place or pushing him away—it wasn’t clear which.

He noticed. Of course he did.

His eyes lifted to yours, slow and deliberate, like he was reading something you hadn’t meant to show.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he murmured, voice low, almost detached. “Go on—say it properly.”

It wasn’t a question. Not really.

You answered anyway, quieter than you meant to, the words slipping out quicker than you liked.

His lips twitched—barely. Not quite a smile, not quite anything at all.

He’d move his hand a bit faster in retaliation

“There you go.”

The words were soft, but they landed heavy.

A pause.

Then, quieter still—

“Good Girl.”

It wasn’t praise the way it should’ve been. It was measured. Noting. Like he was keeping track of something only he understood.

“You’re getting there.”

Condescending, just enough to make your grip tighten around his wrist. Just enough to make you want to prove something you couldn’t quite name.

That was the thing about Theodore.

Nothing he did was obvious.

Nothing loud. Nothing careless.

But everything lingered.