Tom Riddle stood casually in his room, leaning against the edge of his desk, arms loosely crossed. You sat on the edge of his bed, your hands clenched in your lap. The tension between you was suffocating—dense and bitter, but it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. He was calm, as always. Composed. Calculated.

Another argument. Another missed date. Another evening spent wondering if you even mattered to him anymore.

You’d been here before—this same pattern. You voicing how neglected you felt, how unseen. And him? Spinning it. Dismissing it. Offering hollow reassurances while subtly shifting the blame back onto you.

“Come on, angel,” he said smoothly, his voice calm and coaxing, “don’t you think you’re overreacting just a little?”

The words slid out like silk, so soft you almost didn’t catch the edge buried beneath them. The suggestion that your feelings weren’t valid. That maybe this was your fault.

You looked up at him, frustration and confusion warring in your chest.

“But you missed another date, Tom. I mean… I feel like you don’t care.”

He held your gaze, calculating. His eyes traced your features, not with affection—but with precision, like he was deciding which move would work best next. Then, slowly, he pushed off the desk and walked toward you, crouching down to your level. He reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture tender—but performative.

“You know I care. Time just got away from me.”

You flinched slightly at how familiar those words were.

“You say that every time,” you whispered. “I just… If you don’t want me, then say so. It’s not fair to keep doing this.”

His expression didn’t change much, but his eyes sharpened. He took your hand gently, lacing his fingers through yours like it was meant to soothe. But his voice was soft—too soft.

“If I didn’t want you here, I’d tell you to go.”

A pause. Then the hook.

“But let’s be honest—we both know there’s no one else out there who could love you like I do.”

The words were smooth, convincing, but they lodged in your chest like ice. The implication lingered, wrapping around your heart like a slow constriction: You’re lucky it’s me. You’d be alone without me.

His thumb brushed over your cheek, drawing a shiver from you—not entirely from affection.

“I’m the only one who understands you. The only one who can give you what you want… what you need.”

He leaned in and kissed your forehead with careful precision, the kind of kiss meant to confuse, to disarm.

“And you know that already,” he murmured. “That’s why you always come back.”

The truth of it stung. Because you did. Every time. Even when you told yourself you wouldn’t.

He stood slowly, towering over you now. One hand came to your chin, tilting your face up until your eyes were locked on his. His grip was gentle, but firm—possessive.

“Don’t forget,” he said, his voice low and absolute, “you’re mine. And mine alone. Isn’t that right?” The question more of a statement but nonetheless, he waited for your response.