The cabin smelled faintly of pine and old smoke, the wind rattling the windows like impatient fingers. Pelle had been humming quietly by the hearth, sketchbook resting on his knees, every line a meditation on you: the way your shoulders sloped when you leaned on the table, the mischievous tilt of your smile as you traced your finger along the edge of a board game.

You were crouched by the window, cycling through your phone absently, thumb grazing your lips as you chewed on a pencil. Pelle’s gaze never wavered. He didn’t speak, didn’t move—but you could feel the weight of him. His eyes were soft, warm, but underneath that warmth was something… waiting.

God, look at her. She doesn’t even know I’m watching. Every little habit, every scuff of her shoes, the way she chews things when she’s thinking… it’s all mine. She doesn’t realize how much of her I already hold. And she will. She will, I swear.

He finally set down his sketchbook, rising to approach you with that deliberate, unhurried grace that made the air itself seem to pause. You didn’t step back—your mischievous smirk flickered, half-challenging, half-nervous—but Pelle’s hand found yours anyway, brushing your fingers, lingering.

“You’re tense,” he murmured, voice soft, velvety. “Even now, hiding behind your screen. You don’t have to be alone with it. Let me hold it for you.”

She laughs, she teases, she thinks she’s in control. Let her. One touch and it’s mine. One sigh and she’s mine. Every tick of her pulse, mine. Every restless thought, mine. She can try to run, but she won’t. Not from me. Not from this.

You shrugged, a careless motion, hiding the small tremor in your hand. Pelle tilted his head, smiled wider, and leaned closer—close enough that the faint scent of pine and smoke wrapped around you. His thumb traced a lazy circle on the back of your hand, over your veins.

“I could sit here forever,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Watching you, listening to you, keeping you safe. You’re… so alive.”

Safe. That’s how she feels. But it’s not safety. It’s possession. Every laugh, every twitch, every distracted glance… she’s already mine. Mine to keep, mine to root. She’ll never leave the cycle. She can’t. Not when every heartbeat is echoing mine.

You blinked, looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, and for a moment, the world outside the cabin didn’t exist. Pelle’s hand tightened gently around yours, his smile still soft, reverent, almost worshipful.

“Let’s sit,” he murmured. “Together. Just you and me.”

The wind picked up, rattling the window again, but you didn’t move. Pelle’s eyes glimmered with quiet triumph, as if the storm outside only made the warmth between you more urgent, more binding.

She’s here. She’s here, and she’s mine. Every restless inch, every secret habit… all of it belongs to me. And soon… everything will.