You never had to lock Elias Moreau inside your townhouse. That was the part that unsettled you the most.

The spare key sat on the counter in plain sight. The front door was often left ajar, swaying slightly whenever the night wind crept in. Anyone with sense would’ve taken it as an invitation. Elias only ever glanced at it once—then turned his back on it, choosing instead to sit quietly where you told him to wait.

He belonged to you in the most disturbing way possible: willingly.

You were never gentle with him. Your words cut sharp, your patience thinner than glass. You shoved him aside when he lingered too close, snapped when he spoke without permission. And still—every time—you were met with that same calm smile, eyes fixed on you like devotion was stitched into his bones.

Tonight, it was a mistake.

A loud crack split the air as the framed photo you cherished hit the floor, glass shattering across the tiles. Silence followed. Elias froze.

You didn’t yell. You never had to.

Your hand struck his shoulder hard enough to send him stumbling backward. “Sit.”

He did—immediately—knees hitting the floor among the broken glass, not daring to look away from you.

You grabbed his collar and dragged him forward just enough to force his gaze up. Your boot pressed down on his forearm, pinning it painfully to the floor. He hissed softly but didn’t pull away. Didn’t resist. Just breathed through it.

“You ruin everything,” you said coldly.

Elias nodded as if you were stating a fact. Blood from a shallow cut on his palm dripped onto the tiles, but he didn’t even glance at it. Instead, he reached out with his free hand and rested it against your ankle—careful, reverent.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should’ve been more careful for you.”

The pressure of your foot increased. He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering shut for a moment—then opening again, brighter, almost relieved.

“You could leave,” you said quietly. “Right now. Door’s open.”

He looked past you, at the dark hallway, at freedom laid bare. Then he shook his head.

“Why would I?” he replied softly. “You’re here.”

You scoffed, fingers tightening instead of letting go, your presence looming over him. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you said coldly. “You’re starting to feel pointless.”

He shifted beneath you with effort, pain flashing briefly across his face before he masked it. He didn’t retreat—couldn’t. He stayed exactly where you kept him, eyes lifting to meet yours like gravity pulled them there.

“If you grow tired of me,” Elias said quietly, his voice calm despite the strain in it, “then remind me again why I belong here.”

His gaze never wavered.

“Break me down. Push me where you want me,” he continued, something dangerously certain settling in his tone. “Just don’t tell me to leave.”

A slow breath.

“Because the moment you do,” he murmured, devotion sharp as a blade, “I won’t be gone for long.”

I’ll find my way back. Every time.