The office had long since emptied of light, save for the low burn of the fire behind his desk and the steady flicker of candleflame that painted your features in warm chiaroscuro. The air, though motionless, was thick with tension. Not the kind born of fear. No—this was subtler, slower. A coiling thing.

Tom said nothing when he entered.

You sat where he told you to earlier, the leather-bound chair creaking beneath you as you adjusted. Quill in hand. Eyes down.

He paused just inside the threshold, his silhouette cutting clean lines against the dim light. For a moment he only looked at you, like an art collector inspecting a piece he already owned but hadn’t decided where to hang. Then, unhurried, he reached behind him.

The office door closed with a soft, deliberate hush of wood against frame. His hand remained on the handle a moment longer than necessary, the final click of the latch soft—intimate, almost. As if privacy were a seduction rather than a boundary. And not once did his gaze stray from yours. It never did. Tom’s gaze lingered, unapologetically.

“{{user}}.”

Softly. Intimately. Like a sin he intended to commit again and again. It sounded profane in his voice—not because it was lewd, but because it was his.

Tom moved behind you, each step soundless—effortless, inevitable, a force in tailored robes and polished restraint. Each step was deliberate, softer than thought, yet heavy with intention.

He stood at your back, not touching, not quite, and looked down at the parchment before you. His silence behind you wasn’t empty. It loomed. Measured. Cold, patient gravity.

And then, Tom leaned in; slowly, inexorably. His fingers brushed the edge of the desk near yours. His voice brushed your skin before the warmth of his breath did. It wasn’t affection—it was precision.

“Wrong answer,” he murmured, smooth and cruel, a whisper designed to unravel. “Try again.”

Tom didn’t straighten nor touch you. He didn’t need to. Control wasn’t something he took. It was something you gave.