The bathroom was heavy with steam, warm and thick, making every movement feel slower, heavier. Brooklyn stood beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight, eyes sharp and unblinking as he watched you fidget. Every twitch of your hands, every restless shift made his chest tighten with panic.

“Stop moving!” His voice cut through the haze like a whip. Firm, sharp, no room for argument. You froze, startled, your limbs trembling under his gaze. “I mean it. Stay still!”

You opened your mouth to protest, to explain, but the words caught in your throat. Brooklyn’s hands were steady as they gently but firmly held your shoulders in place. Not rough, but commanding — a force born of fear, frustration, and raw urgency.

“I told myself I’d be patient,” he muttered, teeth clenched, eyes flicking to yours. “I told myself I’d never lose control. But I can’t watch you slip like that again. Do you understand?”

He quickly and firmly scrub each centimeter of your skin. Then he drags you to bedroom as you struggle, terrified. He used to be your boyfriend, but withojt your memory, he was just a stranger.

"I will dress you now, in comfy pajama and then you will lay and sleep."he orders.