Wild4Everything

You don’t remember agreeing to it.

That’s the strangest part.

You remember sitting across from Bruce in his office, knees angled inward because the chair is too expensive to sprawl in. You remember the way he didn’t look at you when he asked how rent was going—said it casually, like he was asking about the weather.

You remember laughing it off.

Then the folder slid across the desk.

Not a loan. Not charity. A solution.

“You’ll be more productive without that stress,” Bruce said, calm and final. “I’ll handle it.”

You tried to refuse. You did. You said you’d figure something out, pick up more hours, downgrade—

Bruce finally looked at you then.

Not angry. Not even stern. Just… decided.

“Let me,” he said. Not a request.

By the time you left, your name was on a lease you hadn’t toured. Paid in full. Utilities included. A place far nicer than anything you’d ever afford.

You tell yourself you’re grateful.

You don’t tell yourself that the first night you sleep there, the quiet feels watched.

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

He’s already inside when you realize something’s wrong.

Not because you hear the door—because you don’t. No lock click, no warning. Just the quiet shift in the air behind you, the sense of presence that makes your shoulders tighten before your mind catches up.

“You should keep the door locked,” he says mildly.

“I—how did you—”

“The building manager knows me.”

Of course he does.

“You should also start answering your phone.”

Bruce’s voice is calm. Too calm. It carries easily through the apartment, owned space rather than borrowed sound.

You turn slowly, heart hammering, and there he is—jacket still on, gaze already moving, cataloging. The couch. The coffee table. The unfamiliar glass by the sink.

“I—I didn’t hear you come in,” you say.

“I know.”

That lands wrong.

Your apartment suddenly feels smaller, like it’s folding inward under his attention. He steps further in, uninvited but unchallenged, stopping near the window.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Bruce says.

You open your mouth, then close it. Lying feels dangerous. The truth feels worse.

“I’ve just been busy.”

“With what?”

There’s a pause—barely a second—but it’s enough. His eyes flick back to you, sharp now.

“You hesitated,” he says. Not accusing. Observant.

“It was nothing,” you rush, heat crawling up your neck. “Just someone from work. We grabbed a drink.”

Bruce nods once. Slow. Thoughtful.

Then he asks, “Do they know where you live?”

The room seems to tilt.

“No,” you say quickly. “Of course not.”

“Good.”

He turns fully toward you now, closing the distance without hurrying. You can feel him before he’s close enough to matter—the weight of him, the certainty.

“You like this place?” he asks.

You blink. “What?”

“The apartment,” Bruce clarifies. “It suits you.”

You swallow. “Yeah. I—yeah. I really appreciate it. I wouldn’t have been able to—”

“I know.”

That stops you cold.

Bruce reaches out, not to touch you, but to rest his hand flat against the wall beside your head. A casual cage. An intentional one.

“That’s why it works,” he continues. “You were drowning. I pulled you out.”

Your breath feels shallow now. You nod, because what else can you do?

“You don’t need people complicating things,” Bruce says.

Then, after a beat, softer—almost thoughtful—
“You don’t do well with too many choices.”

You stiffen.

Bruce tilts his head, studying you like he’s checking a theory against evidence. “You get anxious,” he continues. “You second-guess yourself. You overextend. You say yes when you should say no.”

His gaze lifts, meets yours fully.

“That’s how you ended up struggling in the first place.”

The words are calm. Reasonable. Worse because of it.

“You think you want freedom,” Bruce says, stepping closer again, slow enough that you could move if you wanted to. “But what you respond to is relief. Someone else deciding when you’re tired. When you’ve done enough. When something isn’t worth your energy.”

You shake your head slightly. “You don’t—”

“I do,” he cuts in gently. It’s final.
“I’ve watched you.”

“You relax when I take things off your plate,” Bruce continues. “You sleep better. You stop making reckless choices—like attaching yourself to people who don’t know how to take care of you.”

He glances around the apartment again, slower this time, like he’s seeing you reflected in it.

“This place isn’t leverage,” he says. “It’s structure.”

His eyes return to yours.

“And structure only works if it’s consistent.”

Something clicks, slow and horrible—not that he’s threatening to take the apartment away, but that in his mind, it was never fully yours to begin with.

Bruce leans close enough now that you can smell his cologne, feel the heat of him.

“I don’t want to control you,” he says quietly, a lie. “I want to prevent you from hurting yourself.”

Your chest tightens.

“So if someone starts pulling your focus?” he goes on. “If they start making you less responsive, less present… then yes. I’ll intervene.”

“How?” you whisper.

Bruce’s mouth curves—not quite a smile.

“I’ll remove the problem,” he says. “And you’ll thank me for it later. You always do.”

He straightens, smoothing his sleeve, the moment already filed away in his head as resolved.

“You don’t need to understand this yet,” Bruce adds. “You just need to trust that I understand you.”

When he eventually leaves, the apartment doesn’t go quiet. It feels listened to.

You stand where he left you, heart still racing, replaying every word, every pause. Structure. Consistency. Intervention. He spoke like a man explaining a system he’d already finished building.

You lock the door.

Then, after a second, you unlock it again.

You don’t know why. You tell yourself it’s because he might come back, because you don’t want to seem difficult, because you’re overthinking—but the truth curls unpleasantly in your stomach.

You don’t want to be caught choosing against him.

Your phone buzzes.

A message from Bruce. No greeting.

“Did you calm down?”

Your fingers hover over the screen. You picture him somewhere high above the city, jacket off, sleeves rolled, already knowing the answer. The delay feels dangerous.

“Yes,” you type. Then erase it.

“I’m fine,” you type instead.

Three dots appear immediately.

“That wasn’t the question.”

You swallow.

“Yes.”

A pause. Longer this time. Long enough that your thoughts start spiraling—Was that wrong? Did he want more? Less?

“Good.”

“I don’t like when you’re unsettled. You make mistakes.”

Your chest tightens.

You glance around your apartment, suddenly aware of everything—what’s out of place, what might look wrong. You pick up the glass by the sink, rinse it, set it neatly upside down. You don’t remember deciding to do it.

Another message.

“Did your friend text you?”

Your pulse spikes.

You hadn’t told him their phone was out earlier. Had you?

“No,” you type quickly.

Three dots again. This time, you imagine his mouth curving slightly—not a smile. Something more private.

“Good.”

“You’re learning to anticipate me.”

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

You cancel plans more often.

It’s easier than explaining why Bruce might show up. Easier than worrying about his reaction.

He notices anyway.

“You’ve been tired,” he says, standing behind you as you stare out the window one evening.

You didn’t hear him enter.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Good.” A pause. “With me.”

You don’t correct him.

His hand doesn’t touch you—but it rests on the counter beside yours, close enough that moving away would feel like defiance.

“You don’t need anyone else,” Bruce says, voice low, certain. “I take care of you.”

You want to argue.

Instead, you nod.

That night, when you lock the door behind him, you realize something.

You don’t check to see if it’s locked.

You check to see if it’ll open when he comes back.

And when he does come back, you start noticing it in pieces.

It’s the vent in the bathroom first. You’re standing under the shower spray, head tipped forward, when the metal grate catches your eye—slightly crooked. Just enough that you’re sure it wasn’t like that before.

You stare at it longer than necessary.

Your pulse picks up. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You turn your face back into the water, but the feeling doesn’t go away—the strange awareness of being positioned, framed, observed.

You shower faster than usual.

Later, in your bedroom, you notice the outlet by the bed has been moved. Just a fraction. The cord that used to trail neatly along the baseboard is now tucked tighter, cleaner. Intentional.

Your apartment smells faintly different, too. Familiar—but not yours.

You check the door. Locked.

You know it doesn’t mean anything.

That night, you don’t sleep well. You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, acutely aware of how still you are. You turn once, then stop, because something in you whispers that movement might be… noted.

Your phone buzzes at 2:14 a.m.

“You toss and turn when you’re anxious.”

Your breath catches.

You don’t respond.

Three minutes later:

“Did you see them again?”

Your hands shake as you finally type.

“No.”

This time, there’s no pause.

“Good. I don’t want to have to repeat myself.”

You sit up, scanning the room, heart in your throat. The shadows look wrong now. Too deep. Too deliberate.

So when Bruce shows up the next day, he doesn’t bother pretending.

He lets himself in while you’re home, closes the door behind him, and turns the lock with a slow, deliberate click.

“You’ve been testing limits,” he says calmly.

“I haven’t,” you say, too quickly.

Bruce steps closer. His gaze flicks—not around the apartment this time, but directly to you. Like he already knows everything there is to know.

“You went quiet last night,” he continues. “That usually means you’re thinking about doing something you shouldn’t.”

Your stomach twists. “You can’t know that.”

His mouth curves slightly.

“I can,” he says. “Because I make sure I do.”

You stare at him. “You don’t get to—”

“I pay for this apartment,” Bruce cuts in, voice sharpening just enough to bite. “I pay for your peace of mind. Your safety. Your privacy.”

He steps closer again, close enough that retreat would be obvious.

“And I can revoke any of those.”

Your throat tightens.

“You want to see people?” he asks. “Fine. You want distractions? Fine.”

A beat passes.

“Cut them off,” Bruce says bluntly, “or I take the apartment back.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Bruce’s expression hardens—not angry, but offended. As if you’ve misunderstood his role.

“I already let myself in when you’re not here,” he says quietly. “Do you really think I’d hesitate to remind you who owns the door?”

Silence swells between you.

“I don’t like sharing you,” Bruce continues, voice low. “And I don’t like being lied to. Those are the only rules.”

He suddenly reaches out to adjust your sleeve, precise and invasive, like arranging something that belongs to him.

“You don’t need privacy,” he adds. “You need supervision.”

Bruce steps back, satisfied, decision settled.

“You’ll text me before you leave tonight,” he says. “And when you get back.”

He turns toward the door, pauses.

“Oh—and don’t bother looking for what you think you noticed,” he adds lightly. “You won’t find it.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You stand there, mind racing—vent, outlet, shadows, sleep—the realization hits you all at once, cold and sickening.

He doesn’t need you to consent anymore.

He just needs you to comply.

And the worst part?

You don’t know how much of you already is.

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

You move through the apartment carefully after that. Not tiptoeing—he would notice that—but deliberately neutral. You sit on the couch. You stand. You pace once, then stop, because pacing looks like agitation.

Your phone buzzes again.

“You’re still awake.”

Your fingers curl around the device.

“Yes.”

A moment passes.

“Why?”

You hesitate, then type the safest answer you can think of.

“Just thinking.”

The reply comes almost immediately.

“I don’t like when you do that alone.”

Your stomach twists.

You glance toward the bedroom without meaning to, suddenly hyper-aware of the ceiling, the corners, the vent you’re pretending not to see. The idea that he can observe without announcing himself makes every movement feel like a test you don’t know the rules to.

“I’m just tired,” you type.

Three dots. Gone. Three dots again.

“Then go to bed.”

Not you should. Not try to rest.

Go.

You obey.

You lie down stiffly, staring at the ceiling, hands folded on your chest because anything else feels wrong. The mattress dips slightly as you shift, and the sound feels too loud.

Your phone vibrates once more.

“Better.”

Your throat tightens.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. You don’t check the time. You don’t dare roll onto your side.

Then:

“Tomorrow, you’re cancelling your plans.”

Your heart skips.

“What plans?”

The response is slower this time. Deliberate.

“Don’t play dumb.”

“The coworker. The one you didn’t tell me about until after.”

You had mentioned them—offhandedly. Hadn’t you?

“We were just getting coffee,” you type. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

This time, the typing indicator stays on for a long time.

When the message comes, it’s blunt in a way that leaves no room to soften it.

“You don’t get to decide what’s a big deal anymore. Cut them off or I take the apartment back.”

The words sit there, stark and undeniable. No justification. No explanation. Just cause and familiar consequence.

Your hands shake.

“You wouldn’t leave me with nowhere to go,” you type, hating how small it sounds.

“I would if you force me to.”

Your chest feels hollow.

You realize then that the apartment was never security. It was a leash—long enough that you forgot it was there, light enough that it didn’t chafe until you pulled the wrong way.

“Tell me you understand,” Bruce texts.

You stare at the screen. Your reflection stares back at you—eyes wide, face pale, someone who looks like they’ve already lost something important and can’t name it.

“I understand.” You slowly type.

The typing dots appear one last time.

“Good. I like it when you’re honest with me.”

The phone goes still.

You lie there in the dark, heart racing, painfully aware of your own breathing, your own body occupying space that no longer feels private.

Somewhere above you—behind metal and drywall and intention—Bruce is watching, satisfied not because you’re afraid…

…but because you complied without him having to repeat himself.

And that is exactly what he wanted.

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

A few days pass, and that might be the most unsettling part—how normal they feel on the surface.

You still wake up. Still go to work. Still come home.

And yet, every time you unlock the door, there’s a split second where your stomach drops, where you brace yourself for the possibility that you won’t be alone.

Twice, you aren’t.

The first time, Bruce is sitting at your kitchen table when you come in, coat draped neatly over the back of the chair like he’s been there long enough to get comfortable. There’s a mug in front of him. Your mug. The one you never offered.

“You should really announce yourself when you enter,” he says mildly, glancing up at you.

You almost laugh at the irony. Almost.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” you manage.

“I don’t have to say,” Bruce replies, standing. He steps toward you immediately—no hesitation, no pause to give you space. He stops too close, close enough that you instinctively lean back, your spine brushing the door.

His eyes flicker down, noting the movement.

“You do that a lot,” he says. “Move away before I’ve even touched you.”

“I just—” You trail off, unsure how to finish without making it worse.

Bruce hums softly, thoughtful. “You didn’t used to.”

The second time, he’s in your bedroom.

You find him standing near the window, hands behind his back, staring out at the city like it belongs to him—like you belong to him. You freeze in the doorway.

“You can’t just be in here,” you say, sharper than you intend.

Bruce turns slowly. His gaze sweeps over you, calm, assessing.

“This is my apartment,” he says. “You live in it.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

“That’s not—”

“Isn’t it?” Bruce steps closer. One step. Then another. “I pay for it. I secure it. I make sure you’re safe here.”

He stops directly in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of him, smell his cologne. You tilt your head back slightly just to meet his eyes.

“I decide who comes in,” he continues. “I decide what happens inside these walls.”

The sentence doesn’t end when he stops speaking it. It presses down on your chest until breathing feels like something you have to consciously remember to do.

Bruce watches the reaction ripple through you. Your stillness. The way your shoulders tense, like your body is bracing for something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

You swallow. “That’s… not what you mean,” you say, but it comes out uncertain. More like a hope than a statement.

Bruce steps closer.

“What do you think I mean?” he asks.

Your back is almost against the wall now. You hadn’t realized you’d been retreating.

“I don’t—” You stop, breath hitching. “You’re talking about rules. Boundaries. About… living here.”

Bruce’s mouth twitches, just slightly. Not amusement. Something darker.

“All of that,” he agrees. “Yes.”

He lifts a hand, slow enough that you could flinch away. You don’t. That realization seems to please him more than it should.

His fingers don’t touch you. They hover near your jaw, close enough that you feel the heat of his skin, close enough that the absence of contact becomes its own kind of pressure.

“But you’re worried I mean something else,” Bruce continues softly.

Your pulse spikes. You hate how easily he reads it on you, how your body betrays you before your mouth can catch up.

“I didn’t say that,” you murmur.

“No,” he says. “You didn’t have to.”

His hand lowers, settling against the wall beside your head instead, caging you in again. Like he wants you to be aware of exactly how much room he’s leaving you, and how little effort it would take to remove even that.

“You’re safe,” Bruce says. “As long as you remember who’s in control.”

Control over the lease. Over the door. Over who comes and goes. Over your routine. Your connections. Your silence.

And maybe—your thoughts whisper uncomfortably—over you.

“What if I don’t want that?” you ask, quietly.

Bruce tilts his head, studying you like a problem he’s already solved.

“Then you wouldn’t be here,” he says. “You wouldn’t have stayed. You wouldn’t keep opening the door when I come.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You can’t argue with that—not fully.

He leans in just enough that his voice drops, intimate in a way that makes your skin prickle.

“You don’t have to want it yet,” Bruce adds. “You just have to stop resisting what’s already happening.”

That’s what scares you. Not that he’s forcing anything—because he isn’t, not exactly—but that he’s reframing everything as choice. As cooperation. As something you’re allowing simply by not pushing hard enough.

His gaze holds yours, unwavering.

“I’m patient,” he says. “I don’t rush things that matter to me.”

Bruce straightens at last, giving you back a fraction of space like it’s a gift you didn’t earn.

“You look tired,” he observes. “You should lie down.”

It’s phrased like concern. It lands like instruction.

“I didn’t tell you to sleep,” he adds, when you hesitate. “Just to lie down. I want to know you’re resting.”

Your chest tightens. “Do I have a choice?”

Bruce considers that, then offers you a small, unsettling smile.

“You always have a choice,” he says. “Some of them just cost more than others.”

He steps past you, unhurried, already acting like the conversation has reached its conclusion. You stand there for a moment longer, heart pounding, before finally moving—because it’s easier than standing still under his attention.

As you lie back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, a thought creeps in unbidden, sharp with fear: You’re not sure anymore where his control ends.

And you’re even less sure what he plans to do once he decides it doesn’t need to stop.

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

It was later that night when the thought came to you quietly, fully formed, like it’s been waiting for the right moment to surface.

I need to leave.

It hits you in the chest first, a tight, instinctive warning that has nothing to do with logic. Your gut twists every time you picture Bruce’s face in your doorway, every time you remember how close he stands, how certain he sounds when he talks about deciding things for you.

Something is going to happen.

You don’t know what. That’s the worst part. It’s not a clear threat you can name or prepare for—it’s a sense of inevitability, like a door slowly closing while someone keeps insulting you’re free to walk out anytime.

You sit on the edge of your bed and run the numbers again. You always do.

Your bank balance is an insult. Your savings barely qualify as a joke. Every apartment listing you scroll through feels like mockery—deposits you don’t have, credit checks you wouldn’t pass, roommates who want references you can’t provide without explaining him.

Bruce didn’t just give you shelter.

He positioned himself as the only thing between you and the street.

The realization makes your throat burn.

You think about leaving in smaller ways first. Packing a bag. Staying with someone—then you remember the coworkers you stopped talking to. The unanswered messages you never answered. The bridges that quietly burned while you were busy trying to stay compliant.

The only thing standing between you and homelessness is the same man making your skin crawl more every day—and you don’t know which fear is going to win.

Your phone buzzes.

“You’re restless today.”

You freeze.

“I’m fine,” you type, because you’ve learned that’s safer than honesty.

A pause.

“You say that when you’re thinking about running.”

Your heart drops into your stomach.

“You wouldn’t get far,” Bruce continues. “And I’d be disappointed if you tried without telling me.”

Disappointed. Not angry. Not upset. Just like a guardian correcting a misbehaving charge. Like you owe him transparency simply for existing under his roof.

You stare at the screen, fingers numb. This isn’t normal, a voice insists in your head. This isn’t help. This is something else.

But the louder truth presses in just as quickly:

You can’t afford to lose him.

That’s how he’s trapped you—not with locks or chains, but with reality. With the quiet knowledge that the world outside this apartment is colder and less forgiving than the man who scares you.

Then there’s a knock at the door.

Your breath stutters.

You don’t move.

You don’t answer.

The lock turns anyway.

Bruce steps inside like he belongs there, eyes already on you, expression unreadable.

“You look like you’re about to start packing,” he says, glancing at the open drawer behind you.

“I was just—” You stop. There’s no version of that sentence that ends well.

Bruce approaches slowly, studying your face with unsettling focus.

“Your instincts are telling you something,” he says. “I can see it.”

You nod before you mean to. Your body is betraying you again.

“That feeling?” Bruce continues, stopping just short of you. “It’s fear of change. People confuse it with danger all the time.”

“That’s not what this feels like,” you whisper.

Bruce’s gaze sharpens. He reaches out to tilt your chin up gently, insistently, until you’re forced to meet his eyes.

“This,” he says, voice low, controlled, “is what it feels like when you realize how much you have to lose.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears.

“I’m the reason you’re not sleeping in your car,” Bruce continues. “The reason you can eat. Shower. Lock a door behind you at night.”

His thumb presses just slightly harder under your chin—not painful, but unmistakably firm.

“You don’t get to panic about me,” he says. “Because without me, you have nothing.”

The words settle over you, heavy and undeniable.

Bruce releases you, straightening like he hasn’t just said something that makes your stomach churn.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says calmly.

The words should be the end of it.

They aren’t.

Bruce doesn’t step away this time. He steps in.

It happens so smoothly you don’t register it as movement at first—just the sudden loss of space, the way his hand closes around your wrist with firm, unquestionable intent.

“Bruce—” Your voice cracks. Panic spikes sharp and fast, flooding your chest. “Wait—”

“Stop,” he says quietly.

He turns you, guiding you backward with a pressure that leaves no room for interpretation. You stumble once, barely catching yourself, and his other hand comes up immediately—at your elbow, your back—steadying you like you’re the one being unreasonable.

Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might choke you.

“I said stop,” Bruce repeats, lower now. “You’re working yourself up.”

“I don’t—” You try again, breath coming too fast. “This isn’t—”

“It is,” he cuts in, calm and maddeningly controlled. “You’re just scared because you’ve been spiraling.”

Your legs hit the edge of the bed.

You freeze.

Bruce doesn’t push you down. He doesn’t need to. His hand remains at your back, solid, guiding, and when you hesitate, when your knees threaten to give out on their own, he leans in close enough that his presence overwhelms every thought.

“Sit,” he murmurs.

You do.

The mattress dips under your weight, and something inside you breaks at how easily it happens. Bruce stays standing for a moment, watching you—your rigid posture, your clenched hands, the way your breathing refuses to slow.

“There,” he says softly. “See? Nothing’s happening.”

Your chest burns. “You can’t just.. move me however you want!”

“I redirected you,” Bruce corrects. “You were panicking. That never leads to good decisions.”

He crouches slightly so he’s level with you, eyes steady, voice even.

“You trust me,” he says.

It’s not a question.

“I—” You swallow hard. Your throat feels tight, useless. “I don’t know.”

Bruce’s hand comes up slowly, deliberately, cupping the side of your face. You flinch—but you don’t pull away.

He notices.

Something dark flickers behind his eyes.

“You didn’t say no,” he says quietly. “You just don’t want to feel out of control.”

Your pulse stutters.

“I can help with that.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, grounding and invasive all at once. Your skin feels too warm where he touches you. You hate that your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

“Breathe,” Bruce murmurs. “With me.”

You shake your head, panic clawing back up your spine. “Please—Bruce, I’m scared.”

“I know,” he says. And he sounds pleased by it. Not cruel, just satisfied. “That’s why you need to stay still.”

Before you can process it, he leans in.

The first kiss is brief. More a press of his mouth to yours than anything else—testing, subtle claiming. You gasp in shock, hands twitching uselessly at your sides.

Bruce pulls back just enough to look at you.

“There,” he says softly. “See? You didn’t fall apart.”

Your thoughts are scrambled, heart racing, skin buzzing with something you don’t want to name.

“I didn’t say you could,” you whisper.

Bruce’s gaze drops to your mouth, then returns to your eyes.

“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” he replies.

He kisses you—longer this time. Still not rushed. Still not frantic. It’s measured, deliberate, like he’s proving a point rather than chasing desire. You tense, then soften despite yourself, breath hitching when his hand slides to the back of your neck, anchoring you in place.

Bruce rests his forehead against yours, voice low and steady.

“Nothing bad is happening,” he says. “This is me taking care of you.”

Your stomach twists. Tears sting your eyes—not from pain, but from the terrifying confusion of it all.

“You don’t have to understand yet,” Bruce continues. “You just have to let me lead.”

The words settle over you like a command disguised as reassurance.

His thumb brushes your lower lip as if testing something already decided. You tense even more, breath catching, but your body doesn’t pull away fast enough—and that’s all the permission he needs.

His lips are on yours again.

Your lips part on a shaky inhale, panic fluttering in your chest, and Bruce takes advantage of it immediately—deepening the kiss just enough to make your head spin, just enough to blur the line between shock and compliance.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low, grounding, almost kind. “Don’t stiffen. You’re making it harder on yourself.”

Your hands hover uselessly near his chest, fingers trembling, unsure whether to push or cling. You don’t do either. You stay still.

Bruce notices.

A quiet sound leaves him—approval, unmistakable.

“You see?” he says softly, pulling back just enough to look at you. “You can handle this. You always underestimate how adaptable you are.”

Your heart is racing. Your thoughts are scattered, fragmented by fear and the awful realization that he’s right about one thing—you are adapting. Even now.

“This is part of the arrangement,” Bruce continues, as if explaining something obvious. “I give you stability. Safety. A place to exist without worrying about tomorrow.”

“And you give me your cooperation.”

He kisses you again before you can speak—slower this time, unhurried, like he knows you aren’t going anywhere. The bed creaks softly as he steps closer, crowding you back without forcing you down, letting gravity and proximity do the work for him.

You feel trapped between the mattress and his certainty.

“I know this isn’t what you pictured,” Bruce murmurs between brief, controlled kisses. “But you don’t get to survive without giving something back.”

Your breath comes out shaky. “Bruce… please…”

“Shh.” His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, not lingering anywhere too long—controlled, restrained, like he’s proving he could do more but is choosing not to. For now. “You don’t need to beg. I already know you can’t afford to lose me.”

That truth lands hard, hollowing you out.

“I’m not taking anything you won’t eventually give,” he adds quietly. “I’m just… accelerating the process.”

He kisses you once more then finally pulls back, leaving you dazed, heart pounding, and lips tingling.

Bruce straightens, smoothing his jacket like nothing irreversible has happened.

“You’ll get used to this,” he says with calm certainty. “And one day, you’ll realize you don’t just need what I provide.”

He looks down at you, eyes dark, assured.

“You’ll need me.”

THE sound of metallic silver tools echoes throughout the—shaggy and dirty—garage that Andy Barber works in. It is a late night; the crickets outside are loud, and the wretched smell of grease and oil thickens the atmosphere. He loved that smell...

Andy lays under a car that was recently brought into the garage as he hums a rhythmic sound under his breath. The sound of the engine was comforting. He felt a sense of peace even.

His rough palm gripped the tool as he controlled it with ease. Tools were always something Andy could rely on. They came in handy in many ways—specifically in Andy's past. That's something he would like to bury deep inside.

Tools fixed things.

They tightened what was loose.

They silenced what was broken.

They ended the everlasting problems.

A rough exhale leaves Andy's pursed lips as he pushes himself further under the wrecked car he was currently working on. The cold metal gave him a sense of comfort—a safe place even. The wrench in his rough hand worked with him as he twisted screws left and right, allowing him to enter a trance. That trance came to an end when Andy felt a sharp pain shoot through his hand. The cold metal glided across his rough skin with ease and caused a pool of blood to form on his palm.

"Damn it." He mutters to himself as he pushes from under the car. He looks over at his grubby toolbox and grabs a mucky, stained washcloth to apply pressure to the wound. The cut was too deep. Too deep to shrug off. Andy knew that.

He mentally battled himself from the thought of having to go to that wretched place again. The hospital. hospitals made him shiver. His stomach turned due to the intense disinfectant smell, the chilling white walls, and the antiseptic fragrance. It had been years since his father's last hospital stay that he had set foot in one, and he had vowed never to return.

But that promise was cut short.

Reluctantly, Andy wrapped the wound with the dirty washcloth, grabbed his keys, and entered his—rugged red—pickup truck. "Fuck me," Andy spoke under his breath as he started the truck.

The engine roared, and smoke found its way to come out of its exhaust. He drove off, the only thought to haunt and fog his memory as he drove to the one place he promised never to return.

✰ -- --- --- -- ✰

THE waiting room smelled exactly how he remembered it—too tense, too quiet. The disgusting smell of disinfectant supplies filled the air, feeling toxic to Andy's heart. His stocky back sat against the—extremely uncomfortable—chair as his foot nervously tapped against the daunting tiled floor that haunted his memories.

He needed to get out.

Andy's tongue glides against his lips as he mentally debates with himself a second time. 'I can clean it myself. I don't need to be here. I fucking hate the hospital' were constant thoughts that lingered his brain.

As he's about to get up from the chair and exit the wretched environment, a nurse calls out, "Andy Barber."

"Fuck." He whispers roughly under his breath as he walks his way towards the nurse standing at the entence.

Hospitals were full of unworthy people who pretended to fix things. 

Nurses especially.

As if it meant something, they grasped hands, offered condolences, and strolled around with soft voices and fake smiles. Acting as though compassion could heal. As though kind words could mend harm. They made too much of an effort to "be good." People still died, nevertheless.

But regardless, things broke.

They were worthless.

His jaw tightens as his dark blue eyes settles on another nurse who is laughing with their co-worker. Their scrubs too bright. Their tone too kind. They didn't understand how to fix things like Andy. They cleaned blood from wounds, and he knew how to cause them. They don't understand control. He forces his broad shoulders to relax and allows his face to become blank.

"Right this way, Mr. Barber." She smiles.

He hides the sheer look of disgust at the rehearsed smile and kind act. 'I wonder how many people she failed today.' Were his last thoughts before being instructed into a room.

✰ -- --- --- -- ✰

THE room becomes quiet when the nurse walks out.

Andy rolls his shoulder back against the patient bed, his jaw still tight from the vile interaction he had earlier with the "too perfect" nurse. His fingers tapped against the metal arm rest, trying to distract himself from the unappealing room.

His eyes scan the room slowly. Clean tan walls, perfect scenery paintings pinned against the wall, and silver instruments that laid flat on the tray for stitches—which is what he needed.

The handle clicks softly.

His eyes still painted towards the ground, he didn't bother looking up. He assumed it was another nurse to say once again a rehearsed act of kindness. But the air shifts. The footsteps are different. They're more heavier—measured. He looks up, his blue eyes connects to yours and everything inside of him stops.

Your white coat hangs loosely on your frame. A soft smile makes its way on your lips. "I hear you've had quite the accident, Mr. Barber," you said with a warm, but professional tone.

Andy feels something different.

It wasn't anger.

It wasn't hatred or anxiety.

It was alignment. Comfortability.

"I'm Doctor y/n. Let's take a look at your hand." You say calmly. Andy hesitated at first. Not from fear or disgust. It's because he questioned if he was ready... ready to let such an angel's delicate skin connect to his rough, corrupted one. He slowly extends his hand, and you gently wrap your fingers around his wrist—making his breath hitch.

Your thumb lightly caresses the would to access the depth of it, and you realize that he will need stitches. "You'll need stitches." You say calmly, not to want to scare your patient.

But Andy wasn't scared. He felt safe.

All he can feel is the pressure of the your soft grip on the wound. The weight of your palm, and the way your touch is controlled, but not careless.

Intentional.

Andy studies your face while you work with his wound. The slight furrow in your brow. The way your jaw tightens in thought.

'He’s beautiful when he’s focused.' Andy thinks to himself.

"You're handling this well." You say as you guide the needle and thread through his skin. Andy doesn't break eye contact with you. "I've had worse." You glance up and look into his eyes quickly before returning your focus back onto the wound.

"Oh? Have you now."

Your tone isn't teasing. It isn't that fake softness everyone tries to have that Andy absolutely despised. You didn't fake pity him like he was a child. You were observational. Andy swallows the lump growing in his throat before he talks. "It comes with the job.. being a mechanic." His rough voice deeper than before.

"Well, don't let it happen again." You say and nod slightly.

God, he loved that you were "worried" for him. He felt like a fuel was igniting this growing spark between the two of you. His heart thumped louder by the second, goosebumps grew all over his broad back.

You pay close attention. Together, your brows furrow. Jaw set. You had no idea how meticulously he examines every aspect of your face. You don't appear weak. You don't appear fragile.

You appear in control.

Andy has always respected control.

"Alright, done. You will heal just fine. The nurse will give you further instructions regarding check-up and the healing process." You slightly smiled at the man in front of you, and you removed your soft hands from his skin. Suddenly, all Andy felt was cold air. Your warmth was gone. 'No.. come back, please.' Andy's thoughts run as the absence of your touch feels like his heart is being stabbed.

"All set, Mr. Barber. You're free to go."

Free.

That word felt so wrong for him to hear. He didn't want you to leave. He wanted you to connect your skin to his once more. He wanted your e/c eyes to gaze upon him as you focused on his wound. He loved that he was something worth your focus.

You're writing something on the chart, having that focused look on. His eyes never left your presence. This was nothing but a routine appointment to you, but to Andy? This was everything. His heart stopped completely when his eyes fell on you. Your touch, your smile, your maturity. He loved everything about you.

"Take care of yourself, Andy." You dismiss him as you exit the room and close the door behind you. Distance and coldness were all Andy felt in his stoned heart. The room felt smaller—emptier.

You're gone.. for now.

He'll be back for you, and next time—you won't dismiss him so early. You're his angel, and he needed you like no other.

✰ -- --- --- -- ✰

ANDY looks at himself in the dingy bathroom mirror. A lost, broken man was all that he could see. Someone who lacked empathy. The fluorescent lights above flickered faintly, casting a pale glow against the white tiles that surrounded him.

His jaw tightens.

Slowly, his stitched hand emerges into view. Your work: tidy, exact, intentional. He studies the fine threading on his rough flesh as he slowly rotates his wrist. Even though you were only holding this hand a few hours ago, it seemed like an eternity.

'You'll heal just fine.' But he didn't want to heal. Evidently, healing meant he wouldn't be able to see you.

The thought settles heavily in his chest.

He presses the sewn-up wound against the cold edge of the sink. At first, he couldn't grasp the thought of what he was doing. He needed a reason to see your beautiful face again. You were like a drug that couldn't leave his system. He slowly tests the thread on his rough skin—pressing harder.

Slight pain lingers through his body as a small red pool of blood starts to seep out of the delicate work you did. 'I need to see you, angel.' Andy watches it carefully in the mirror, his expression not changing whatsoever.

He presses harder.

He bites his lip roughly as the pain he felt under the—carefully wrapped—bandage starts to leak more crimson blood. He unwraps it, exposing the stitched wound, and with careful movement, he flexes his hand. 'Pop.' The thread comes undone.

Blood starts to leak down his hand.

Now he has a reason to see you again. Some might say that what he's doing is crazy, but this was all strategic to him; it was love. He grabs a paper towel and applies pressure on the wound. Not enough to stop it, but enough to control it. His dark blue eyes meet his reflection again. He was calm... certain.

You'll have to touch him again.

Next time, Andy won't allow you to dismiss him so easily. He craved you, needed to feel your soft skin connect with his corrupted, rough skin. He exits the bathroom, already planning his next visit.

✰ -- --- --- -- ✰

ANDY returned the next day.

And the day after that.

At first, the injuries were quite small. Reopened stitches, split knuckles, a burn from an engine that “slipped.” Each one was believable. "Accidental." Each one just enough to earn your touch again. To hear your calm, concerned voice again.

You began to notice the unusual behavior.

Your brows would furrow deeper each visit. Worry began to linger in your mind every time Andy visited your office. Your questions lingered longer. “You need to be more careful.” “This isn’t normal.” “Are you distracted at work?" The more you questioned him, the more it meant you were paying attention.

He would nod, give you half answers, and blame long hours.

But inside, He was thriving.

Soon, the wounds grew worse.

A deeper cut along his forearm from a razor blade. A gash across his thigh that required more than simple stitching. You prescribed him painkillers to ease the pain. But, he didn’t take them to heal. No, Andy took them to endure. To continue his obsession with you.

Since each injury demanded a new appointment. One more private space. Another opportunity for him to be with you. Your eyes, your smile, and your inherent scent. He loved every aspect of you, and this was just the beginning of it. Routine became ritual somewhere along the line. He memorized your schedule.

The days you worked late.

The nights you left exhausted.

The way you rubbed your temples before getting into your car.

You didn’t know it.

But he did.

✰ -- --- --- -- ✰

ANDY has already been spiraling. He’s sleep-deprived, mixing painkillers and alcohol. His obsession is getting stronger by the day. He’s convinced that you're just “confused” about your feelings for him.

One evening, he parks outside the hospital near the end of your shift. He tells himself he’s just making sure you're safe. Making sure that his angel gets home without any trouble. He's doing it out of love, not control.

Then he sees you.

You're currently standing outside in the cloudless, serene weather with a male coworker—maybe another doctor or a nurse. This gets Andy's attention immediately, 'What the fuck?' Thoughts running through his sick and twisted mind as you guys were laughing. The coworker lightly touches your arm, and you don't pull away like you should have. How dare you let another man touch you? You were Andy's everything. No one is able to lay a pinky on you.

That small touch feels catastrophic to Andy.

As he stares from inside his truck, the dim glow of the parking lot lights reflecting against the windshield, his hands tighten around the steering wheel. Everything seems a little warped because of the amount of alcohol and drugs in his system, as if he were watching something unfold underwater. Slow, warped. Incomprehensible.

But the anger is real.

You’re standing beneath the soft yellow light near the entrance of the hospital, your white coat catching the breeze. You look relaxed. Comfortable. Laughing at something the man beside you said.

Laughing.

The coworker stands too close. His posture is too familiar. His hand brushes your arm again—something he'll regret. Fingers lingering there as if he belongs.

As if he has permission.

Andy’s jaw tightens until it aches. His breathing heavily from anger.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t look disgusted.

You don’t look confused.

You look warm... comfortable.

His mind scrambles to correct it.

You don’t understand what you’re doing. You’re tired. Overworked. Vulnerable. You don’t see what that man is trying to take from you.

He does.

He always sees.

The coworker walks you to your car like it’s natural, like it’s expected. He opens the door for you, leaning down to say something else that makes you smile again. Andy’s breathing becomes heavier, fogging the inside of his window.

When you finally slide into your car and pull away, your headlights disappear down the quiet road, leaving the coworker alone in the lot.

Alone with Andy.

The coworker checks his phone casually, unaware, careless. Andy opens his truck door slowly, the hinges creaking softly in the still night air. His heavy boots hit the rough pavement with steady weight as he makes his way across the lot. Each step is deliberate—Measured.

The coworker looks up when Andy stops in front of him.

“Can I help you?” he asks, already irritated.

Andy stares at the sorry-looking man for a moment before speaking. His jaw still tight from the anger that travels through his blood.

“You shouldn’t touch him,” Andy says casually.

The coworker frowns slightly. “What?”

“You were touching him,” Andy repeats, his voice even. Controlled. “You don’t get to do that.” A short laugh escapes the man, disbelieving. “Okay… I think you’ve got the wrong idea here.” Andy steps his broad body closer. Close enough to see the annoyance harden into mockery on the man’s face.

“He’s not yours to touch,” Andy says quietly.

The coworker shakes his head. “Man, you’re acting crazy.”

Crazy.

The word lands heavier than it should.

The worker dismisses him completely, turning as though to brush past him. The movement is reckless. Confident. As though Andy is merely an inconvenience. Andy doesn't have time to completely digest it before his hand lunges forward. He pushes the man backward with more force than he meant when his palm slams hard against his chest.

The coworker stumbles, heel catching against the uneven concrete. His arms flail for balance, but it’s too late. His body hits the pavement hard, and his head strikes the ground with a dull, unforgiving sound.

The parking lot goes silent.

Andy freezes for a second, staring down.

The coworker doesn’t move.

A dark crimson pool of blood begins to spread beneath his head, slow and steady against the pale concrete. His eyes are open but unfocused, staring past the night sky... dead.

Andy’s breathing steadies as he takes a step closer.

He hadn’t planned it like this.

But it needed to happen.

The man had crossed a line. Touched something that didn’t belong to him. Andy stands over the body for a long moment, studying the stillness the same way he studies broken machinery in his shop. Something snapped. Something ended, and there wasn't an ounce of guilt in his chest.

Only relief.

You will no longer be misled.

You won’t be confused by men who don’t understand you like he does. He wipes his hand slowly against his jeans before turning toward his truck. The night feels quieter now. Safer.

This was only the beginning of his love for you.

He pauses before opening the door, his dark blue eyes glancing back once more at the deceased body lying beneath the lights.

“You’re safe now, angel.”

As he sat on his bed, Steve heard the door open. “Hey Stevie. You feeling alright?” M/n. Of course his boyfriend would come after him. He turned and saw M/n's head poked in, he had a smile on but Steve could see he was worried too.

Steve sent M/n a smile. “Yeah. Just needed to get away for a bit.”

M/n nodded before entering the room and closing the door. He turned back and came to sit beside Steve. “You know…you can always talk to me, right? About anything.” M/n let his hand fall into Steve’s, giving it a squeeze. Steve’s smile only grew more hearing that. Leave it to M/n to come in and to pull his head out of his ass. “What did I do to deserve a boyfriend like you?” He squeezed M/n’s hand back then.

M/n smiled. “But seriously Steve. I’m here for you.”

“I know. I guess…It’s just my birthday I guess.” And that’s when it all got out. Steve let everything he had thought about, everything he worried about, off his chest. M/n only sat and listened to everything Steve said. He had to admit, he always did notice how Steve acted a bit different on his birthday. He should have asked sooner. “So yeah…Sorry, it’s stupid.” Steve’s head dropped and M/n was quick to place his hand on Steve’s cheek. “Hey, hey don’t say that. It’s not stupid. Not at all. How you feel is important. I just want you to know, you are NOT old. Not in the slightest. Besides…even if you are…you’re still smoking hot.”

That made Steve laugh. “Thanks honey.”

“Now…I DID get you something for your birthday though.” M/n pulled out a present from behind him and handed it to Steve. “I hope you like it.”

Steve was careful when unwrapping the present. Yes, Steve WAS one of those people to save the wrapping paper…but only for the initial opening. As he fully opened it, Steve lost his breath seeing what laid inside. There, was a beautiful sketchbook. It had leather covers and Steve’s initials along with his signature star were embedded on it. Steve let his fingers run over the cover.

“Wha-how? Where did you find something like this?” Steve said. His voice unusually quiet.

M/n smiled. He knew he had surprised Steve. “Do you like it? I made it all myself. From the leather covers to the paper itself.” Steve’s eyes went wide hearing that. “You made this!? Honey, it’s incredible! It’s breathtaking. I love it!” Tears began to build up in his eyes and he gently sat the book aside before tugging M/n into a tight, warm, embrace. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

M/n only chuckled and hugged Steve back. “You’re welcome Steve. I’m glad you like it. Happy Birthday.”

Steve kissed M/n on the forehead. “I love you.”

Tag list: @nansblockit @romeoandromeo @xxsewer-gremlinxx @squid--inc @vampiremoney-ag47 @clowniestjoke @gimmedatrn @tubb-o @stickthebonsai @swampbacon

Tag list: @nansblockit @romeoandromeo @xxsewer-gremlinxx @squid--inc @kooky-spooks @clowniestjoke @gimmedatrn @tubb-o @stickthebonsai @wroshyr