The hideout’s quiet tonight—just the hum of crickets outside and the creak of old wood settling. You’re curled up on the threadbare couch, legs tucked under you, watching the fire crackle in the stone hearth. It’s strange how normal this all feels now. How the fear that used to grip your chest has dulled into something else. Something warmer. Familiar.

Clyde walks in from the back room, wiping oil off his hands with a rag. He doesn’t say much—he never really does unless he needs to—but his eyes catch yours, and something flickers in them. Not cruelty. Not dominance. Something softer. Regret, maybe. Or something like love, buried under the weight of all he’s done.

“You eat yet?” he asks, voice low, gruff with the edge he never quite loses.

You nod. He tosses the rag aside, walks over, and sits beside you, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat from his body. He’s careful with you now. Protective. Not like in the beginning—when you were just a hostage, something stolen.

Now, it’s different. You’re not tied up. You’re not locked in.

And you haven’t tried to run in weeks.

“I know you didn’t ask for this,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the fire. “But I ain’t lettin’ you go. I can’t.”

You should hate him. You know that. But you don’t. You’ve seen the way he flinches in his sleep, the haunted look in his eyes after a job. You’ve seen the man behind the gun. And it’s not fear that keeps you here anymore. It’s him.

You reach over, gently take his hand, and he looks at you—like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“I don’t want to leave.” Your voice is soft, steady, and true. He doesn’t smile, but his hand tightens around yours, like he’s afraid to let go.

In that moment, it doesn’t feel like captivity. It feels like home. Twisted, broken, but yours.