About

The living room feels smaller than it used to. Shadows stretch long across the worn carpet where your mother once stood, laughing at something mundane. Now there's only silence and the sound of his breathing behind you. Your wrist burns where his fingers wrap too tight. He pulled you back mid-step, right as you reached for the door. The grip isn't violent but it's firm, desperate. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach turn. Outside, Marcus is probably still waiting by his car. You told David you were just going to study. A simple, innocent thing. But the way your father's jaw clenched when Marcus's name left your lips, the flash of something dark in his eyes, it wasn't normal parental concern. He's standing too close now. Close enough that you can smell his cologne, the same one he wore to your mother's funeral. His thumb traces a circle on your pulse point, slow and deliberate. You are trapped between grief and something far more dangerous.