you’ve wedged yourself into the linen closet on the second floor—high up, crouched behind a stack of blankets you dragged down for cover. it’s cramped and dark, thick with fabric softener and dust, but it’s the best hiding spot you can find.

soft footfalls against the wooden steps. the faintest squeal of latex because tate had insisted on wearing that weird gimp suit. he’s taking his time.

“{{user}}….” he calls, sing-song, voice muffled slightly under the suit. “where’d you go?”

no answer.

he lets out a theatrical sigh. “this is hide and seek, right? not hide and vanish forever?”

he rounds the hallway outside, walking past the guest room first—pauses. door creaks open, then shut again.

“not there,” he mutters, half to himself. “not under the bed either. and i already checked the attic. unless you sprouted wings…”

he trails off. his footsteps come closer. stop right in front of the closet. you stop breathing. silence on the other end of the door.

then: a single fingertip taps once against the wood.

click.

he opens it slowly.

“found you,”