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your-bait-and-swich · 3 days ago

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Penance Pt. 2

To save you, he makes you his own. To survive, you must convince everyone else that you want this.

Brought into the heart of the family's power, you quickly learn that safety is an illusion. With his own control fracturing under their judgement, you forge a new role, a new truce, and a new intimacy that tests his boundaries. But the new alliance forged in the quiet of his secret loft blurs the line between protector and possessor, and who stands on which side.

Moodboard by @nbraraeaves Ao3

Automatic locks click as soon as the car door closes behind you. From the tinted windows, you watch Hector round the black SUV. It is identical to the one that brought you here. His masked face scans your surroundings, through the campus built of massive pipes and ducts that sprawls around you, but whatever he is looking for, he doesn't seem to find it.

When he slides into the driver's seat, you fumble for your seat belt. The mundane muscle memory feels bizarre and pointless in the face of this new, immediate danger. The gear shifts, and the car glides silently down a forested path, returning you to a civilization that no longer feels like yours.

The red marks on your wrists are beginning to fade into light bruises. Your shoulders still ache from the time you spent restrained and tense. You had been untied, but not freed. Trapped instead in leather seats, a sleek interface, and glowing light inlays.

Next to you, Hector drives with a silent, focused intensity. His masked face is turned forward, but his attention is clearly on you. Every few seconds, his head ticks in your direction. Is he checking that you were still there, or that you were still breathing?

“...Is it safe to drive in that?” You ask, trying to break the horrid silence. It’s the most trivial thing you could think to ask about.

“In what?” He glances towards you again.

You just look at him, a silent, pointed stare. He makes a small noise of recognition, his hand leaving the wheel for a fraction of a second to touch the mask’s edge. He nods.

“Yes. This borrowed face and I have reached an accord. It allows me a certain… freedom of movement in a world that would otherwise be unwelcoming of me. Without it, I would be unable to perform even this simple task. Tell me… does it trouble you?”

“I don't know.” The blank mask was no comfort, but without knowing what it hid, you couldn't argue that removing it would be the better option. Scars from a life of violence? A face so forgettable that revealing it was his true anonymity, or one so memorable it couldn't risk being seen? “Do you ever take it off?”

He laughs, low and only once. “But of course. It is only a tool. I shed it in the quiet moments, when the world does not demand this version of me.”

“Do you ever take it off in front of people? Or... now? Since no one’s around?”

He turns to you for a second, the featureless plane revealing nothing. “No. I… I would not have your first true sight of me be in the shadow of this fear.”

You begin to protest this but reconsider your situation. You have no leverage, and it’s only by his fondness for you that you’re even here. You try a different angle. “No one else wears one.”

“They have no reason to hide.”

And that feels like the very definitive end to that. You turn to watch out your window, ignoring the buzz of his attention so tangible across the small space. Forests and fences restructure into sprawling, manicured lawns and long driveways. A woman laughs as she checks her mail; a man walks his dog. For them, it’s just another day. For you, you must accept that that world may always be no more than a backdrop for a lifelong balancing act.

“Where are we going?” you ask the window.

“To the heart of the beast. I must present my… petition. Confess the choice I have made, before someone else is commissioned for the task.”

Confess what? That he let you live? That he disobeyed an order? That he is claiming you? Trying to make sense of it does nothing for the twist in your stomach. Every path leads somewhere you don’t want to go.

“Is it safe?”

The leather of his gloves pulls tighter over his knuckles. You promise yourself never to ask that again.

You arrive not at a gated, walled-off compound bristling with security, but at a massive, elegant home nestled in a row of other, equally impressive properties. It hides in plain sight, its grandeur a form of camouflage. Impeccable brick walls frame inscrutably dark windows. The engine is cut, and Hector has your door open, moving with a fluid swiftness that allows you no time to process. From the cavernous, immaculate garage, a young woman with a bored expression approaches and wordlessly takes the keys from him, her eyes flicking to you once with dismissive curiosity before she disappears with the car.

As Hector leads you toward a side door and up a short stone walkway, his hand hovers near your back, not yet touching. He stops just before the ornate wooden door, which opens from within as if on cue. He looks ahead into the beautifully lit foyer, and you notice a tremor in his opposite hand before he clenches it into a fist at his side.

“This will be another condition, for now,” his command sounds more like a pleading request. “I must ask for your silence.”

“Even if I'm asked something?”

“I do not think anyone here would be so audacious.” A sharp, regretful inhale hisses through his teeth. “But yes. Even then... Forgive this necessity. One day, I will return your voice to you.”

You don't feel gagged; you feel relieved, actually. You are a loose thread he is trying to weave back into a tapestry that has no room for you. Trying to explain your own impossible and offensive existence to people who expected to see you dead might land you there anyway. You give a single, sharp nod.

The interior is a stark contrast to the industrial ecosystem you just left. It is warm, lavish, and alive with carefully performative voices from an adjacent sitting room. Your steps are silent on a plush runner before they tap lightly onto wood. A constellation of a chandelier above you scatters pinpricks of rainbows over mahogany walls and museum-quality works of art. Men and women in sharp, tailored clothes turn as you enter. You are met with nothing but scrutiny.

Hector’s name is spoken with respect, but the eyes that land on you are cold and suspicious. His hand at last presses into the small of your back, and the scrutiny lands on that point of contact instead. His palm is not relaxed; his fingers are rigid against you and pinch the fabric of your clothes between his thumb and the side of his hand. He is holding on to you as much as he is guiding you.

The whispers follow you, sharp and clear in the high-ceilinged space.

“...The launderer from the photo front? That’s who he’s been watching?”

“I told you he couldn’t... but what is he thinking?”

“Look. The favorite shadow, brought to a heel.”

The voices pull your attention in every direction, but you keep your gaze pointed down. Wooden floors, polished to a near-perfect mirror, reflect a distorted, awkward version of yourself back.

“Hector,” a man with silver temples and a cruel, practiced smile says, stepping directly into your path. His suit is immaculate, his presence predatory. “Good to see you. Cleaning up your messes, or just bringing them inside now?” His gaze on you is a surgeon's scalpel, but he's found nothing worth cutting.

Hector's already tense posture locks impossibly further. He gestures curtly for him to step aside. The man’s smile tightens, his eyes flashing with anger.

“This was not what your instructions were, were they?” he grits. “Why are you making this complicated?”

“You weren’t there when my instructions were given,” Hector snaps back. There’s a slight tremor of fury—or is it fear?—in his voice that he instantly smothers. “Stay out of work that isn't yours.”

The man laughs. “Why? I tried to save you from this, you know. I told them your project would get the best of you. That your jobs always end up becoming mine anyway. We could have skipped all of this and just let me have it to begin with.”

“This one,” Hector says, his voice dropping to an even whisper that cuts through the room’s ambient noise, “will never be.”

This time, you hear it for certain. It makes every hair on your arms stand on end. Fear. You have only known Hector as a voice of calm authority and assurances. But this, the open defiance, is blatantly not him. The tension of his whole body, the tremor in his voice, the grip on your back... he’s terrified. And if you can recognize it, surely his family and their sharp looks could as well.

“What was the plan anyway? Letting everyone see how you grovel for attention, even from someone like this?”

Instead of responding, Hector’s hand presses firmer, guiding you around the aggressor. As you pass, the man leans in with a sibilant whisper meant only for you two. “Every pet has a leash, Hector. Even yours. Be mindful of who is holding it, and who it is actually leading.”

You flinch, a sharp tension through your back that Hector immediately feels. His grip tightens, not in anger, but as if to shield you from the venom in the air. He doesn’t look back, but his pace quickens, pulling you away from the threat.

You are met with similarly outraged expressions in the next room, but no one else dares to block your path. Hector doesn't flinch. He doesn’t engage. He pushes you gently but inexorably past the glares and down a long, art-lined hallway.

He stops at a heavy oak door, ushering you into what looks like a vacant but luxurious guest room. He closes the door behind you, and the click of the lock marks a brief reprieve. He scans the room: the windows, the corners, the single door. The slight tremble in his hands is even more evidence that his performance has shaken him. He releases a held breath and turns away from you to lift his mask and run a hand down his unseen face. “God...” he sighs, and just as quickly, it’s been replaced.

You take in the room in a single passive look. Silk wallpaper, a four-poster bed that looks as if it’s older than you are, and a gilded mirror reflecting a terrified stranger. It’s beautiful. Every detail of luxury feels like a mocking laugh to the fear still making your hair stand on end.

For a naive moment, you had thought that the seat of the family’s power could be secure. But now that you were here, the sheer number of people who walked these halls felt like a thousand potential threats. Each hostile glance was a reminder that your very existence was a problem they would have no qualms about solving.

“Thank you,” he finally says, leaning back against the heavy door as if to barricade it himself. “For allowing me to maneuver that. For remaining quiet.”

Hesitantly, you nod, stunned that this is something to be acknowledged between you now.

He pushes himself off the door, shaking away the last of his lingering fear, or at least setting it aside for a new purpose. He begins a slow patrol of the room’s perimeter. Moving to the large, empty closet, he opens the door and runs a hand along the back wall. Satisfied, he moves to crouch and look under the bed.

“I apologize, as well, for their behavior.” He rises, dusting his knees. “They are unpracticed in even rudimentary considerations. Brutes, as I have said.”

Rotating to stay out of his way, you lean against a heavy armchair, until you remember you had just spent far too much time in one just like it. You straighten with a jolt. “You said that they would respect this. That no one would touch someone that was... yours.”

His gloved finger traces the seam of the window until it lands on the latch. It’s locked. He still jiggles it twice. “And they will. But a claim is a story that must be told before it can be believed.”

“Even if they do... it doesn't seem like they're happy about it.”

The curtains snap shut between his hands, darkening the room. He looks over his shoulder. “One person’s failure is the family’s,” he says quietly. “They don't want to pay for what I've done.”

The target on your back burns. You can feel their eyes again, even through the walls and locked door. “Is something going to happen to you?”

“For—for what? Defying them? Because for all their talk, this is not a failure,” his voice is quickened, losing its usual depth and control. “But… I truly do not know. I have never given them cause to raise a hand against me.” He’s still, unnaturally so. “It does not matter.”

Panic flits into your chest. “It does! I only agreed because it'd be with you! You said they gave you room, that they’d respect this! They can’t do that to you.”

His hands drop from their hold on the curtains slowly, leather gliding along fabric, until they land by his sides. “My life is not in jeopardy. It wouldn’t be anything as gruesome as that,” he says curiously, as if he doesn't understand your concern. “And they will honor it once they understand what I’ve decided.”

“But they could still hurt you? Hurt you because of me?”

“You... are concerned about me?”

Suddenly, you're not sure where to put your hands. “I—I suppose. If you're responsible for keeping me safe... it would put me in a bad spot if you were hurt. If anyone else saw you as weak. Right?”

He continues the perimeter of the room silently, acting as if he hadn't heard your attempts to reframe your concern in logic. But, unmistakably, the peek of skin between his shirt collar and mask is red. He returns to the door, his plan apparently to resume his useless, static guard. “It will not matter if I’m hurt or weak after they understand my decision. Despite what Keith said, you are not just a prize to be passed between snarling dogs in the yard. And you do not lead me in front of them.”

You sit on the edge of the large, perfectly made bed. The careful control of his stillness does nothing for the frantic stress you can feel pouring off him.

“What do you mean ‘in front of them’?”

He turns his masked face away, his fingers lacing together in an attempt to maintain composure.

“Everything else has been revealed after all, hasn't it...?” He says more to himself than to you, then louder. “As you heard, it's no secret that you are the axis my world turns. You do not merely lead me; your very existence guides and shapes my own. By controlling you, they believe they can control me. They would be right.”

In the blur of adrenaline, this affection that grows impossibly larger is difficult to make sense of. What had you done that he was so in love with? To have your world stripped away and all this power placed in your hands in the same day left you scrambling for solutions.

“How do we...?” You press your hands to your face, not even sure how to ask this.

“As I said, you will be mine. It is only a part you play, of course. I am under no delusion that you feel anything of what I do for you. Today, your silence was sufficient, but in the future, it must seem... more convincing.”

You nod, slowly, struggling to imagine how to pretend to be so in love with a mask that you'd willingly leave your life behind.

“And... now?”

“Now. Yes, the moment at hand. I must leave. To face what I've done.” He makes no motion to do so.

“What, with everyone?”

“Only—” he cuts himself off from a name, you presume. “The one who gave me the order. Between that and walking you in here... that should settle the waters.”

You nod slowly, as if this makes sense to you. “Should I… go with you? Or stay here?”

“…I don't know,” he admits, and all the fear in his voice from before has returned. “I cannot decide if it’s better for you to remain here, so I will not be distracted and you do not have to witness—” he cuts himself off again, his hands tightening as he crosses his arms. “It would only make you worry, after all. And if I keep you with me, with all their eyes on you, the things they would say…”

You imagine him before a jury of some sort. Tall chairs and tables covered by shadowy figures. You imagine his mask turning to you at every question, his uncertainty obvious. His voice sounding like this and not the certain, poetic one you know he’s capable of. They already know his weakness; they didn't need to see it, too.

In a strange gesture of condolence, you hear yourself say, “I’ll be fine here, Hector.”

“You don’t know that.”

“The door locks, the window, too.” You know those are flimsy defenses. “I don’t have a phone... Do you trust me not to leave?”

“Of course I do. Even if you did not mean what you said before... you understand the risks.”

“Then what are you still worried about?”

His head snaps towards the door at a distant sound from the hall. He holds up a hand for silence, listening intently. After a moment, and with his confidence that the noise won’t return, he doesn’t look back, but down to the floor. “I... nearly lost you. And now I must treat you like this. I have to pull you into the den I wanted to keep you so far away from. Don’t you see what this has done to me? No matter what I do, even if the family keeps their distance, there will always be others. Crossfire, complications... Where I yearned for quiet conversations and the bloom of patience, I am left with… this. You must be terrified and confused, forced into proximity with me. Resent me, even. You don’t know me! And now, maybe you never truly will, because I have been forced to ruin whatever we could have been.”

You stand, the soft rustle of your clothes against the bedding catching his attention. He takes an involuntary step back and presses his shoulders flush against the door, a flash of the shy, fearful man appearing from beneath the enforcer. You close the distance slowly, allowing him any moment to push you away. He doesn’t.

When you’re close enough to feel the heat radiating through his jacket, to see the bounce of his pulse in his neck, you raise a hand. Your fear and your new, strange resolve form a truce. Then, you take his gloved hand in both of yours. It’s still tense, moving unnaturally in your hold.

You run a finger along the leather seam, the simple touch seeming to send a tremor through him. You hear his breath catch.

“It’s too late to worry about that now,” you reassure quietly, projecting a confidence you don’t feel but have decided he needs to see. “What I need from you now, Hector, is for you to be fast.”

You glance up to his mask, but it is, as always, unchanging. “Let anyone who needs to know, know. That I belong to you. You did it when we walked in. I trust you can do it again.”

He hesitates, and his hand does not relax in yours. “It hurts to do it this way. This is… crude. I am not some simple predator claiming a prize. I wanted...”

Ignoring his romantic ideals, a luxury neither of you can afford, you turn his hand over. Slowly, deliberately, you work your fingers under the cuff of his glove and pull. The leather slides free, revealing a hand you find is surprisingly elegant and deft. It doesn’t look like the hand of a murderer, you think. You trail your fingers across his knuckles and find writer’s callouses on the sides of them. His hands are rough against yours, and only a scar that covers the back of all four fingers hints at the life he lives. Your touch moves down his palm, then up to intertwine your fingers with his. Your skin against his is warm and steadying. Kind. Your only point of stability in the upheaval of your day.

“Don’t think of it as a delusion. Just... listen to me. I belong to you. Please,” you whisper, your chest thrumming with the desperation for you both. “Tell them.”

The direct touch of your skin on his seems to shatter his resistance. He gives a slow, singular nod, transfixed on your joined hands.

“You... Any other time. To hear you say this... but now that I have made you...”

You squeeze his hand. “No more apologies. Not now. You made it sound as if we had no time to linger.”

“No, we don’t,” he agrees, and with a flinch of resistance as if tearing himself from a lifeline, pulls his hand free from yours. His glove is replaced quickly. “I will not forget this, my love,” he promises. “And I will return as soon as I am able.”

It isn’t until the door closes behind him that the opulent room feels like a cage again. Large and empty. The tick of a clock haunts you, and for a long minute that you count with it, you don’t move. You stand just where he left you, the warmth of his hand your only focus. You don’t know if you’ve just comforted a broken man or armed one.

Your life, the one that existed only yesterday, plays on a loop in your head. Where was your phone? Was your family trying to reach you? Your friends? What would your clients think when the sign on your shop door never flipped back to ‘Open’? Would it be closed forever, or would they hand it over to someone else?

You have to do something. Anything. Standing here and chewing on your leg in the trap will hurt no one but yourself. You dedicate yourself to learning whatever you can about your new prison. In a quick circular walk to consider your options, you decide on the bed. Your movements are weak but efficient. You rip away the silk duvet and sheets, the fine fabric glowing just as elegantly on the floor. You run your hands over every inch of the mattress, pressing, searching for a hidden zipper or compartment. Anything. You find nothing.

The nightstands are next. You pull the drawers out completely, turning them over and running your fingers along the empty insides. You remember seeing false bottoms in drawers in a movie once. The drawers in the dresser get the same treatment. Then you check behind it, under the plush rug, along the tops of decorative picture frames. There is nothing taped underneath the bed frame. No concealed buttons. You don’t know what you were looking for—a weapon, maybe. A tool. But the emptiness of the room is another failure. There is nothing here but what they want you to see.

Defeated, you sink onto the edge of the bare mattress. You drop your head into your hands and try to reason with yourself to just... wait. The room is a wreck. You could put it back together again just to fill the time.

A floorboard creaks in the hallway outside. You freeze, your heart seizing in anticipation for the lock to turn. Is it him? Or is it someone else? The footsteps fade, but your heightened fear remains. And you wait—what else could you do?—you wait until he returns.

It isn’t until the sun has sunken fully, leaving you in the deep shadows, that one of the startling noises from the hallway settles at the door. The handle clicks; you see the doorknob turn. It’s him. You jump up and wish you had turned a light on. He slips around the barely opened door quickly so it never opens more than it has to, and he latches it quickly.

“Hector,” you breathe, surging to your feet and rushing toward him, your own fear momentarily forgotten. “Are you okay? Did they—”

Your sentence trails off. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even seem to see you at first. His body is rigid, his masked gaze fixed on the disorder of the room beyond you. The wrecked bed, the overturned drawers, the fine linens pooled on the floor. He’s too shocked by the ruined state of the room, and that you’ve never turned the lights on, to even register your question.

With a frantic speed you don’t know how to stop, you can practically see his mind filling in the terrible gaps of what might have happened to you in his absence. You jolt as his hold on your arms takes you off guard. He’s focused on you now, trying to read you, to scan you for injuries you might be hiding in the dim light. His breathing is sharp. “Who was in here? Tell me what they did. Show me where you are hurt. Do not hide anything from me.”

Your hands hover over his shoulders, wanting to comfort him but unsure of the line that still separates you two. “No, no, Hector. It was me. I did this.”

His head tilts; you’re not sure he believes you. “Nothing happened. I was alone the whole time. I promise.” Carefully, your hands fall to the material of his jacket and you push. Reluctantly, he lets you go, but you can still feel his unwavering focus as you move to flick the lights on. The room is flooded with the warm, golden light of the lamps, revealing the mess in its full glory but also showing him that you are perfectly fine.

“See?”

He sighs, a deep, grateful sound of relief, and the corners of your mouth twitch upwards in appreciation.

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters. His head bows for a moment, overwhelmed by a reprieve he clearly thought he wouldn’t get. He braces himself against the wall with one hand for a breath, then pushes himself upright. He looks over the room again in the new light, with the new understanding that you did this. “But... why?”

“I was scared,” you admit, the confession costing you your pride. But nothing seemed to be beneficial about lying. “Being left here alone... I just... needed to do something. See if there was something in here that could help or…”

“Forgive me,” he presses his hand flat over his heart, and his voice has an edge of self-loathing. “To leave you in this state, in this place... It will not happen again. From now on, I will be better prepared.”

Once you’re convinced that it’s only his own dramatics he’s carrying and not any fear for you, you find your words and insist again. “What about you? How did the meeting go?”

He straightens, a semblance of his performative self returning. “It went as well as could be expected,” he says, pulling on his jacket to straighten it. “It was a tense negotiation, but my record served me well. This was the first and only time I have ever asked for such an exception.”

“And they didn’t hurt you?”

His train of thought seems to stop, again taken aback. “Still, you ask after my well-being?” He spreads his arms for you, so you can see that he looks unchanged from when he left. “...Nothing has happened to me. Nothing will happen to me. I… I’m sorry, I should have started with that. I didn’t know you were in such distress over it, just that I would still be able to protect you.”

You look away, a surprising heat warming your face. “Of course I was. Anyone would be. You’ve protected me all this time, after all. It’s only fair that I do at least that.”

“You owe me nothing. Please. Every breath you take in this new life is a debt I am incurring, one I must spend my own life repaying.”

“Hector, you can’t keep thinking of yourself as my captor,” you counter, and wish you could look him in the eye. For the first time, his mask is a frustrating barrier. You try your best to look through it. “I can’t keep thinking of it like this, and you’re just torturing yourself. If we’re going to sell this... we have to act like it’s real.” Saying it out loud, so boldly, you find a spark of courage. A touch of a smile changes your expression for the first time since you’ve been pulled into this world. “I’m not a very skilled actor, you know. And I don’t have the help of a mask. If I’m going to do this right, it’s better if I just get comfortable with it now.”

Leaning heavily against the four-poster bed, Hector only seems even more pained by this, hurt that you are putting your all into this terrible charade for the sake of your mutual survival. But instead of voicing this yet again, he hears you and dips his head. “Thank you.”

A moment of silence settles between you as you both take in the ruined room. You’ve both been through a battle, and the evidence is all around you. There’s nothing left to do here.

“Are you tired?” he asks without looking at you.

“I don’t know. I think I’ve been too tense all day to tell.”

“I understand.” He stands, rolls his neck in each direction, and pulls his shoulders back again, shifting again from the vulnerable man to the capable protector. He formally extends an arm to you. Hesitantly, shakily, you take it, your fingers resting in the crook of his elbow.

“What about the room? I should clean up…”

“It’s fine. The least the family owes you is this. And it has been torn apart in worse ways.”

You turn from the mess on the floor and try not to think about what that means. “Where are we going?”

He looks to you, and though you cannot see his face, you feel the weight of his answer. “Home.”

The journey back out of the house is just as tense as the arrival, but the atmosphere has shifted. Word has clearly spread. Everyone keeps their distance, conversations quieting as you pass. The looks you receive now are no longer just cutting and suspicious, but a strange mixture of things. Some of the older members look away quickly, a sign of respect. Others stare on with obvious disdain, and a few younger ones watch with open, hungry curiosity. Keith is nowhere to be seen.

The longer you walk, the more the rich mahogany walls seem to bend down and crush you. Hector leans closer to you, his voice hardly a low-timbered whisper. “Remember, you belong here just as much as I do. More than most of them. Show them that.” With a hard swallow and a nod, your shoulders pull back, just as you saw him do before exiting the room. Even more eyes seem to fall back to their own business.

Once outside, you repeat your earlier travel in reverse. The car door is opened for you before you can even reach for it, and the quiet hum of its engine is a wonderful buffer against far too many spinning, bladed thoughts. You return to the sprawling industrial grounds, but this time he drives around to the back of the main building. Instead of the large bay door, you are met with a single, locked metal fire door set into the old brick. It must lead to the loft above.

As you approach the door, he stops you, a hand pressed gently against your shoulder to get your attention. You wonder if touch will be a regular part of your interactions from now on, or just a comfort for today.

“I have never shown this to anyone else,” he admits seriously. “Swear to me that you will not breathe a word of this place to anyone. This is mine. By showing it to you... it will be ours. You must keep this secret.”

You blink in surprise, now burning with curiosity. “Of course, Hector. Never a soul.”

He nods, the door unlocks, and he leads you up an echoing metal staircase.

The metal door groans open into a sudden, vast quiet. This is indeed a loft, a cavernous space where the moonlight struggles through large, grimy industrial windows until he flicks the switch on an exposed panel and the unadorned lights come on.

Dozens of large, unfinished canvases are propped against the exposed brick walls. They are meticulous, almost obsessive studies. You see a hyper-realistic painting of a single, rusted gear, its every tooth and fleck of corrosion rendered with reverent detail. The skeletal sketch of the unfinished half seems to emerge from under the painted layers as its own statement. Another shows an unmistakable scene: your photo lab, lit dimly in the intimate red of the darkroom light. It’s a harsh reminder of a past you are forcing yourself to forget, so you tear your eyes from it.

A simple, dark-wood desk sits near the center of the open space. On it, a laptop is closed, but next to it lies a stack of worn, leather-bound notebooks and a jar holding a single, old-fashioned fountain pen.

The massive windows, their panes clouded with decades of the kind of grime that manifests in a place like this, look out over a tangle of concrete and steel pipes below, a view that from here looks like a strange, industrial garden. Deep shadows hide the ground from you, and it seems as if it sprawls into the void forever.

On one of the few clear walls, other masks hang from simple iron hooks. They aren't the stark, featureless one he wears now. These are different. One is a sorrowful Venetian design with delicate filigree. Another is a blank, white Noh mask from a Japanese play, its expression unnervingly neutral. They are the faces of a man fascinated with the art of being someone else.

A small, minimalist kitchen wraps one corner of the space. A high-end kettle and a single, heavy cast-iron pan sit on the pristine stove. You notice the corners of the dark wood cabinets are painted with sharp, intricate geometric patterns in a shimmering silver. You can perfectly picture him with a tiny detail brush, his large frame hunched over in intense, silent focus, taking time out of his violent life to add these precise touches of beauty to his own small world. The image makes more sense than you would have expected.

“I like to feel forgotten here,” he says quietly, his voice softer in the echoing space. “It’s easy to pretend I don’t exist.”

His bed is a large, low platform pushed into a far corner, made up with simple, crisp white linens and a heavy, dark wool blanket. It looks more like a practice of discipline than comfort.

You thought he’d be more at ease here, in his own sanctuary, but he seems profoundly sad, an intruder in his own life now that you are in it. You watch as he moves with a quiet, pained urgency to close the leather-bound notebooks, his back to you. He turns a few of the canvases to face the wall, hiding their intricate details from your sight. He is closing doors, pulling curtains, hiding the man who lives here from you.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” you say. “Thank you for getting me out of that house.”

He slows his motions, his hand hovering on yet another canvas. “Intruding? No, for now, this place is as much a sanctuary for you as it has been for me. I know it must not feel that way, but I will endeavor to make it so. This is... a temporary solution. A stopgap until I can secure a dwelling more suited to you, somewhere not so riddled with the reminders of my world. I cannot imagine how this must feel…” He tilts his head thoughtfully, readjusting his mask. “Perhaps a floor in a quiet apartment building? We would have separate units, of course, but you would still be within my reach, should the need arise.”

You blanch at the suggestion. A whole floor? His breath catches as he also catches what he assumes was his presumption. “I—I do not mean to violate that part of your life as well. I swear it. Your privacy and peace... that is my sole concern!”

You manage a dry laugh, looking around the loft again. It was a far cry from an entire building floor, but far more comfortable, too. It was the first landing you had fallen on all day that felt remotely stable, and now he was planning to take it away. “I’m not going to take your home from you, Hector. I can just be a guest here.”

He seems genuinely perplexed by the suggestion. “A guest? I have never... hosted a guest before. Truly. It would be a simpler matter to gift you the space for a time.”

“And where would you go?” Your stomach drops.

“The family home is always open to me, as it is to all of us. When I’m not with you or elsewhere, that is what it’s for,” he suggests. The dropping sensation free-falls into sharp-edged fear.

“No,” you say, the word coming out with more force than intended. He flinches. “Absolutely not. You can’t go back there. Not to sleep—not alone.” The thought of him returning to that den of wolves, to Keith’s threat, vulnerable because of you, is unbearable. “People will wonder about that, too, won’t they? Why you seem to avoid being alone with me?”

“That can be explained away,” he sounds less than convinced.

“And... I’d be awake all night. Worrying. I’m tired of being scared, Hector. For me, please don’t make me scared now for you, too.”

He goes very still, absorbing your words. “Forgive me. I find I am... still unaccustomed to being the subject of such concern.” The strange wonder in his voice is laced with something else, something unrecognizable. “You are right. It was a thoughtless suggestion. I will take better care to consider my own safety, if only for the sake of yours.” He relents completely. “I will not return there.”

It’s a win. A small one, but a win. The first release of any tension. “So... this place will still be yours, and I can just be a guest, then?”

“As I said, I have never had one. Not here. Not... anywhere, before,” he confesses, a hint of old loneliness in his tone. “But I will try. I can be good at this, for you.” He seems to seize on this new purpose. “In the morning, I will see to it that you have everything you need returned to you. Do you have any requests? Anything at all from your old home that I can bring to you?”

The answer comes forth immediately, but you hesitate, the request feeling childish after the life-and-death negotiations of the day. “My pillow?” you finally ask, shyly.

A soft, warm sound comes from his chest, almost a chuckle. “Of course,” he says, and you can feel the genuine endearment in his voice.

“And... what about my phone?” you ask, pushing your luck.

He hesitates, but the warmth is still there. “That is... more complicated. I will find a solution, I promise you. But I almost certainly cannot return your old one. To do so would be to paint a target on the back of every person in your contacts.”

A staggering dread truly cuts you off. You fumble, grasping for something to distract you from that possibility, because even just considering it for much longer is too much. You wish for somewhere to just fall, but the loft has no real sitting area, true to his word of never hosting guests. Only his desk chair and the bed. Sensing your distress, he tries to redirect as well. “Are you hungry? I can prepare something. A drink?”

You shake your head, your stomach protesting at even the thought. “I couldn’t eat.”

“...I understand,” he says gently, and then more firmly, “But tomorrow, you must.” You relent with another small nod.

The obvious question is all that’s left, right in front of both of your faces. You glance only briefly at the large, solitary bed.

“Where will I sleep?”

The question visibly rattles him. His voice, when he speaks, is shaky again. “You... may borrow some of my clothes for the evening. If you like. Or—or you are welcome to keep on what you have, if that would be more comfortable, considering... It’s your choice. I am only offering what I have.”

You shake your head, the bed question set aside for now. Maybe he’s stalling for time. You can give him that. Besides, a shower and a change of clothes, no matter how strange the circumstances, are a comfort you desperately need.

It’s hard to imagine that the man fumbling with a plain t-shirt in his dresser is the one who had struck fear for your life into your heart that morning, and the contrast nearly makes you melt. Even through the mask, you can feel his refusal to look at you as he sets the clothes in the adjoining bathroom for you.

As you shower, you are careful to respect his privacy. You don’t open the medicine cabinet; you don’t examine the few items on the counter. And you especially don’t think about anything. Nothing at all. You count the holes in the showerhead. You mutter each step of the routine aloud. You will not think of anything.

By the time you return to the main room, wrapped in his clothes and his scent that you refuse to admit is undoing even more of the tension in your mind and body, you feel marginally more human.

Hector is sitting in his desk chair, his leg shaking. His laptop is open, but the screen is dark. He startles when you quietly say his name.

The harsh lines of his bed are looking more and more inviting. You revisit the question from earlier, trying for a casual tone. “So,” you say, with nearly a joking lilt in your voice, “do you prefer I take the blanket and the floor?”

The creak of his leather gloves informs you that you have offended him. “Never.”

“Then we’re sharing the bed, right?” you press, trying to normalize the absurd. “No reason for this to be strange.”

The consideration is quiet, and finally, one of his hands floats to his mask. For a long second, you wonder if he’ll remove it. You are already imagining features to match the little you already know of him. But his hand drops.

You don’t let this deter you and take the initiative, your feigned confidence your only weapon. You climb into the bed, taking the side closest to the window, and pull the covers free.

The way his posture locks makes you feel almost cruel. It is not lost on you that you are in his clothes, in his sheets, a daring temptation to a man you are quickly learning is a daunting amount of desire wrapped in little more than disciplined restraint and fear. You are placing your head between the lion’s teeth.

You pull the covers down on the other side, too, the side you have presumed will be his. His leg stills. He stands, and one at a time, he removes his gloves. Watching his deft and careful fingers stack them neatly on his desk dares to shake your composure.

He walks to the bed, and your pulse, which had skipped past any flutter or soft stirring, is beating heavily in your ears now. He rests one knee on the mattress, leaning over you, taking you in fully. He is still silent. Your gaze travels over the mask, not sure where it would feel the most like an invitation to look, as you sink back down against his pillows. You can hear his breath catch.

Then, he reaches for you, but stops short, his fingers hovering just above your hairline. “Is this… all right?” he whispers.

Your breath catches. You force your grip on the blanket to loosen. With infinite care, he smooths your hair back. The gesture is so chaste, so polite, that it’s devastating. But then his fingers still, and only his thumb brushes slowly, deliberately, against the sensitive skin of your temple, down your cheek. It lands under your chin, tilting your face up towards him. “My love…” You feel the shift in him, the tight wrappings of his control threatening to give way. Your eyes widen at this title he has gifted you, at the reminder of why this is all happening to begin with.

He snatches his hand away.

“I cannot,” he admits, his voice tight. “To lie beside you... it would stretch my control too thin. Please, do not think less of me. I have admitted to you the depth of my desires. I cannot send my heart this far and trust that it will still obey me, that it will remain gentle and tempered. It is a risk I will not take with you.”

Other options present themselves lamely—the floor, the chair—but none are even worth voicing. He pushes off the bed and seems to fasten his mask on even tighter. “I will leave, for now, so that you may rest without my… overburden,” he says, his voice formal once more. “Do not worry. I am not going anywhere dangerous. I would not betray your request. I will be back before you wake.” He gestures to the loft. “If you require anything, you are welcome to it.”

With that awkwardness you are beginning to wonder if anyone else has ever seen, he looks for something, his keys, before remembering they’re still in his pocket. “Goodnight, then.”

“Hector, wait,” you say, sitting up. He stops, his hand on the door.

Moving on your own, your body takes you back out of the bed. You walk to him, unsure of what you’re doing until you’re doing it. You give him no time to retreat or buckle on any more defenses. You hug him. Your arms loop under his jacket and press against the thin shirt and the welcome warmth of his body beneath. You rest your head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” you whisper into the fabric.

“…What for?” His arms hover over you, uncertain, frozen.

“For taking care of me. For... being you. If it had been anyone else…”

You feel his sharp intake of breath as the rise of his chest. “I am trying. Desperately.”

“I know.”

Slowly, his arms find a home around you, one hand resting on your back, the other cradling your head. His mask presses into the side of your hair. “Thank you... for trusting me to do it,” his voice is thin, raw, and laced with an emotion you can’t name. Your heart thrums at the idea of him in bed with you, of getting this comfort to sleep, but the interlaced threat and thrill of his own limitations are sobering. You nod against him.

When you finally pull away, he seems reluctant to let go, but he does. You walk back to his bed and make him promise one more time. “You’re back before I wake up?”

“You have my word.”

Once he’s gone, and the lights are down, you find his bed is surprisingly comfortable. You imagine him here, night after night, undeniably thinking of you. Thinking of you in a way that he could not control once you were finally here. Your thighs tighten, and you feel the weight of his devotion as a silent, heavy presence in the room. Your eyes close, and that is the idea you fall asleep to: him, in this same bed, thinking of you.

#Ugh it's so good!#Bodyguard Hector is killing me

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