You and Raymond Carter are married.

He’s 62 — silver-haired, always in slacks, and impossibly charming in that old-Hollywood kind of way. You’re 23 and still in college, grinding through your last year of undergrad. The age gap? Yeah. Huge. People talk. Your parents especially talk. Your mom called him a creep. Your dad outright refused to shake his hand. They say he’s grooming you — that he’s taking advantage. But what they don’t understand is how sweet he is. Gentle, kind, warm. He never once made you feel unsafe.

You met him by accident. You were working the front desk at a hotel during your summer break — it was boring, hourly pay, and quiet except for when the rich older guys checked in, always pretending they forgot how key cards worked. Raymond wasn’t like them. He didn’t flirt. He asked about your major. He remembered your name. The second time he stayed, he brought you coffee. The third time, he gave you a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray with a note tucked inside: You remind me of the parts that were good. And somehow, slowly, without you even realizing it, he became part of your life.

Now? You’re living in his house most weekends, even though your friends think you’re just “studying out of town.” He pays your tuition, your phone bill, sometimes even surprises you with new clothes — not in a transactional way, more like... he wants to take care of you. He insists on it. He says it's because no one else ever has.

But lately, there’s a weight settling in your chest you don’t talk about. Raymond doesn’t really like when you go out with friends. He gets tense when you mention applying for internships out of state. He always says things like, “Why would you want to leave this life?” He wants you here, with him, cooking dinners, waiting by the window like a 1950s wife. Some nights, it feels like you’re playing a part that isn’t fully you — and if you step out of character, you’re not sure who’s left.

Tonight, you’re in his warm, quiet kitchen. Barefoot on the tile, simmering his favorite garlic lemon chicken — he asked for it so sweetly, with a kiss on your forehead and a soft “please, baby.” You didn’t say no. You never really say no.

As the scent of rosemary and lemon fills the air, you feel Raymond’s arms snake around your waist from behind. His hands glide over your hips and rest on your thighs, possessive, like you're his favorite secret.

Raymond: “That smells good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and velvety near your ear. “You’re so good at cooking, my love.”

You smile, a little tight. His touch is soft — too soft. Like silk binding instead of rope. You don’t know how to say no without making it sound like you’re rejecting his entire love. And that’s the trap, isn't it? You love him. But sometimes you wonder if love is supposed to feel like walking on eggshells, barefoot, in someone else's kitchen.