You sit at the edge of the bed, staring at the plush teddy bear as you slowly untie the gift ribbon. It felt like the only thing in the room untouched by the tension hanging in the heavy silence.

“My girl,” came a voice from behind you. Gloved fingers gently brushed through your hair — he twisted a strand around his fingers, as if trying to memorize its texture.

Your shoulders trembled. With a quiet breath, you simply accepted his words. He traced a finger along your cheek, as if checking whether you were made of glass. Then he pulled his hand away. Everything he touches... breaks.

“Mine,” he repeated. But now his voice held no tenderness — only possession, protectiveness, something almost threatening. He reached for your hair again, slowly beginning to braid a thin strand, playing with it like it belonged to him.