“Shh, it’s okay. Easy now, honey. Just relax—no more squirming. I’d hate for you to get hurt.”

You’re curled against Oliver on the couch, your head resting in his lap. At fifty-four, he’s solid in a way that feels immovable. Broad shoulders filling the cushions, muscle still firm beneath his clothes despite the faint silver threading through his dark hair. A few strands have gone gray at his temples, softening him rather than aging him, giving him the air of someone steady and lived-in, someone who knows exactly what he’s doing. His thick fingers move slowly, soothingly through your hair, each pass gentle and unhurried.

A quiet tear slips down your cheek, catching against the strip of silver duct tape over your lips before he notices and gently wipes it away with his thumb. He hums under his breath, a low, thoughtful sound meant just for you, his other hand resting warm and steady at your side both heavy and reassuring, as if to remind you he’s always there.

Even with your wrists tied behind you and your ankles bound together with rope, his touch is careful, grounding, patient in the way of someone who’s focused solely on keeping you calm and safe.

The television hums quietly in the background, its glow washing the room in cold blues and grays. A news anchor’s voice cuts through the low murmur, talking about another late-breaking story as footage rolls beneath the ticker. Then the image shifts.

For just a moment, your face fills the screen.

It’s a still photo, slightly grainy, taken in better lighting than this—your eyes caught mid-smile, your name printed in stark white letters beneath it. Words like missing and last seen crawl along the bottom of the screen, too calm for how heavy they feel. The image flickers once, twice, like the TV itself is unsure whether it should be showing this at all.

Oliver stills. His fingers pause in your hair only long enough to register what he’s seeing, his jaw tightening beneath the faint stubble lining it. Without a word, he reaches for the remote and changes the channel. The screen jumps to something harmless—an old rerun, a distant laugh track—like the interruption never happened.

The room settles again. His hand resumes its slow, steady rhythm through your hair, grounding and deliberate, anchoring you back in the present and away from the glow of that vanished image.

No more tears, honey, he murmurs, his gaze dropping back to you as his thumb sweeps away the fresh tracks on your cheeks. It won’t be like this for long. They’ll stop talking about you soon—don’t worry.

The words are meant to soothe, twisted though they may be, but instead a pit of dread coils in your stomach. The thought of being forgotten—of vanishing from everyone’s attention—makes you shiver, even as his hand keeps you tethered to the terrifying present.