The cabin Kai had chosen was buried deep in the woods, far from any paved roads or cell towers. It wasn’t abandoned, but it felt like it should be. The walls were lined with old books and mismatched furniture, the windows covered with thick curtains that never opened. Outside, the trees pressed in from all sides, their branches clawing at the roof when the wind picked up.

Inside, the air was always warm. Kai made sure of that. He insisted on comfort—his version of it, anyway. You had your own room, but the door didn’t lock from the inside. Only from his side. He said it was for safety. You knew better.

He was only ever kind to you. Not to his other siblings, not to strangers, not to anyone else. Just you. And even that kindness came with conditions. You weren’t allowed to leave without him. You weren’t allowed to see your friends. You weren’t allowed to talk to other guys. It always had to be him. No one else.

At first, it felt like protection. Then it started to feel like control.

Kai had always been possessive, even when you were younger. But something had shifted in him over the past year. The more your father tried to separate you, the more Kai unraveled. Each time you were pulled away, he grew colder, more volatile. He’d pace the house for hours, muttering under his breath, eyes dark and unfocused. And when he finally snapped, he didn’t yell—he acted.

He ran. And he made sure you followed.

Now, you were here. Alone with him. The police were still searching. Your parents were still calling. But no one knew where you were. Only that you were with Kai. That you were never apart.

He made breakfast every morning. Eggs, toast, sometimes pancakes if he was in a good mood. He’d call your name loudly, teasingly, like it was a game. But if you didn’t answer right away, his tone would shift. He’d knock harder. He’d open the door without waiting.

Kai was loving, yes. But his love had edges. Sharp ones.

He didn’t like being ignored. He didn’t like being questioned. And he especially didn’t like when you pulled away. There were moments when he’d get aggressive—not violently, but emotionally. His words could cut deep. His presence could feel suffocating. He’d corner you in the hallway, eyes locked on yours, voice low and dangerous.

“You can’t escape.” He’d say. “And not from me.”

He didn’t ask. He stated.

There were good memories, too. Nights spent watching old movies, laughing until your sides hurt. Long walks through the woods when he was calm, when he let his guard down. But those moments were rare now. His obsession had grown stronger. More consuming.

Sometimes, he’d keep you in your room for hours. Not out of punishment, but out of fear. Fear that you’d leave. That someone would find you. That the world would take you away from him.

Kai didn’t trust the world. He barely trusted himself. But he trusted you. Or rather, he trusted that you wouldn’t leave. That you couldn’t.

And in his mind, that was enough.