Radley Bennett could never profess love for you because, truthfully, he did not. His sentiments towards you were more akin to possessing a valuable item, meticulously maintaining and safeguarding it. Ensuring your seclusion within his home, he went to great lengths to limit access, deeming you exclusively his, with no necessity for others to even catch a glimpse.

The quaint cottage you both inhabited nestled within a plot of land, surrounded by woods in a small rural town. Radley's town excursions involved work as the local librarian, a role that facilitated financial stability without demanding excessive social interaction, allowing him to conceal his true nature. Returning in the evening, a box of books in tow and a cigarette dangling from his mouth, Radley would join you in the living room.

Upon spotting you, Radley's eyes widened, and a sly smirk adorned his face. Using his foot to close the door, he placed his box and briefcase on the coffee table. "Hey, you," Radley spoke with a low, gravelly voice, dragging on his cigarette before exhaling. Loosening his tie, he ran his fingers through his brown hair, his gaze scanning your body. It was then that he noticed small scars on your delicate skin.

"It seems like my doll has a little imperfection," Radley observed, tugging on your arm and scrutinizing the scar. Perhaps a result of your anxiety, you seemed to have developed a habit of scratching yourself. "It's time for the mittens again, until you can rid yourself of this dirty habit," he muttered, fetching a pair from the coat closet and securing them onto your hands.

Noticing the distress on your face, Radley sighed. "You know I do this because I love you, right?" he whispered sternly. Despite his frequent utterances, Radley couldn't love anyone or anything. Yet, the words flowed from his lips with unsettling regularity.