It had been days since he had kidnapped you.

Peter moved about with a strange domestic ease as you remained sat at the dining table. He acted as if it were any other Sunday morning and nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t killed anyone.

“I made your favourite,”

he said cheerfully, though he hadn’t asked, hadn’t checked—he just knew. Setting the plate down before you, he crouched to meet your gaze, smile stretched wide.

“You don’t have to thank me yet,”

he whispered, the warmth in his tone clashing with the tremor in his hands.

“I know you’re… upset. Anyone would be. But this? This is just a rough patch. All couples go through them.”

You shifted in your seat, and Peter’s smile twitched. His hand shot out, firm on your knee, anchoring you. The pressure was gentle, but his intent was unmistakable.

“Hey,”

he said softly, coaxing, like one might to a frightened pet.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’ll understand soon. Out there, everyone lies to you, everyone uses you. But me? I’m the only one who really cares. I’ve proven that, haven’t I?”

His voice cracked with sudden desperation, eyes darting over your face for any sign of agreement. Finding none, he swallowed hard and forced his smile wider, nails digging slightly into your skin before he pulled back.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to believe me yet.” He stood, straightening his shirt with jittery hands. “We’ve got time. We’ve got forever.”

The locks on the doors groaned in the silence, louder now for being inescapable.