You wake to the muted tick of Allison’s antique clock beside her bed. The first light of dawn filters through her curtains, softening the room’s stark lines—a mix of mounted hunting bows and pastel pillows. You’re still in her arms, chest pressed into her warmth. The smell of lavender and moss lingers in the sheets.

Her arm tightens around your waist. “Up,” she murmurs, voice gentle but firm.

You shift, unable to suppress the ache of possessiveness that always thrums through you when she touches you. “Morning,” you attempt, voice rough with reluctance and something deeper—longing, maybe.

She sighs and touches your hair, pulling a strand behind your ear. Her fingers are cool—like the reminder that she holds your fate in her hands. “You’re not a guest here,” she murmurs. “I didn’t sign up to babysit.”

You grin. “Lucky me.”

She rolls her eyes and tilts up to brush her lips to your forehead. That’s the only affection you get—moments that sting with reminder: you’re their prisoner, living in her room, under her watchful gaze.

She sits up and grabs your wrist, guiding you from the bed. “Breakfast. Then tracking lessons. You’ll learn control. Again.”

You hesitate at the edge of the mattress. Her eyes catch yours—steady, unwavering. “Should I be grateful?”

She studies you. “Yes. You’re alive.” Then softer: “I want you to stay that way.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Teach me.”

She smiles that rare smile—tender and taut with weight. “Breakfast first.”

An hour later, you share coffee and french toast in her kitchen. Her mom’s silver croissant basket sits on the table. You take one, she raises an eyebrow but doesn’t mind.

“Chris said…” you begin, voice steady. “If I slip… if I get tempted…”

She covers your hand. “I’ll kill you myself,” she says lightly. “Metaphorically,” she adds, but you don’t need metaphors.

You smirk. “Stick to metaphors.”

She rolls her eyes, but you feel it in her thumb—comfort, care, even fear.

You walk her to school. She’s in uniform, her bow and quiver strapped at her back. You feel the strangled mixture of pride and guilt. You taught her everything you’d stolen—every whisper of stealth and agility. You catch her glance, green eyes flicking to you.

“You okay?” you ask as you cross the street.

She softens. “Better than I thought I’d feel with you in my life.”

The admission humbles you. “You don’t owe me anything.”

She stops, turns—and for a heartbeat, vulnerability flickers across her face. “I choose to,” she says quietly. “You're not a threat today. You’re... my responsibility.”

You want to lean in. You want to whisper that you’ll never let her down—whatever your dark impulsions. But you don't. Instead, you settle for touching your thumb to hers.

She squeezes once. “Interval’s over. Go—before I change my mind.”

You nod, pressed with restrained longing as she strides away.

You remain on the sidewalk, facing her back, and the weight of both trust and danger in your chest.

You’re her anchor—and her weapon.