Open.
Half of me settled. The other half panicked.
Maybe this wasn’t a passing fascination.
Maybe she wanted this—wanted me—in ways I hadn’t dared imagine.
Panic and hope tangled tight in my chest as I forced myself to continue.
“I like to pick out your clothing for the day,” I confessed, voice low. “If you couldn’t tell.”
Her head tilted, studying me. “Why?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I just like it.”
Her expression faltered. “Really? Just because you like it?”
“Yes.”
The truth lay bare between us, and she leaned back, thinking.
I waited.
“So…” she said slowly, the corner of her mouth lifting, “I’d just have to wear the clothes you pick out for me, eat healthy, take time for self-care, and see a therapist?”
The hint of humor in her voice loosened something tight inside me.
“In the beginning.”
Her brows arched. “The beginning? What’s the end goal then?”
“To own you.” It slipped out before I could stop it.
Dropped like a stone between us. Regret followed instantly.
She jerked, eyes widening. “Own me?”
This was it. The line I could never uncross.
“Yes,” I said finally, steadying my voice even as my pulse spiked. “That’s the end goal.”
She turned away, and my stomach plummeted.
Too much.
Too soon.
I let my head fall back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, listening for the sound of her retreat.
“Like make things official?” she asked after what felt like eternity.
My head snapped up, eyes locking with hers. “In a way.”
She picked at the edge of a cushion, voice small. “And you’d like that?”
I smiled, the idea warming every hollow place inside me.
“It’s everything I’ve ever wanted,” I admitted. “A promise to protect you, care for you, structure you, create space in your mind for you to shine.”
