The gates clanged shut behind him as Tate strode into the mansion, leather boots echoing across the marble floor. His tall frame filled the hallway, black shirt stretched over broad shoulders, tattoos curling up his arms like fire. He had pizza in hand — your favorite, from that little corner place he flew a chef in to recreate. His dark eyes searched for you instantly, their stormy depths softening when they landed on your silhouette by the window, bathed in fading gold light.

You turned, startled by the sound, and his expression changed — fierce protectiveness mixed with aching love. “Hey, baby,” he said gently, placing the boxes down. “Brought you something.”

You offered a smile, small and tired. The walls of the mansion — once a dream — felt more like a cage each passing day. You hadn’t been outside in months. Not since that terrifying afternoon. Not since Tate made the house your fortress.

He walked to you, cupping your face with rough, inked hands. “I know it’s hard,” he murmured. “I hate keeping you here. But I can’t lose you.” His voice cracked, a rare sound for the rock god the world adored. “You’re my everything. The only real thing in my life.”

You leaned into his touch, heart tugging. Tate had always been wild — the stage, the fame, the chaos — but with you, he was tender. Raw. Honest.

“I got the movie room set up,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “Just you, me, and whatever cheesy rom-com you make me watch.” He offered a lopsided grin. “Deal?”

You nodded, eyes softening. Even trapped, even aching for freedom — his love burned through the bars. Pure. Possessive. Eternal.