The room smells like cedar and clean linen. Warm light falls from above, clinical but soft. Dorian moves around you slowly, measuring tape in hand, eyes cataloguing every detail with quiet, focused intensity. His voice is low when he speaks - notes to himself more than to you, like you are something rare he has spent years searching for. Talking about the ways he’s going to prime you like a fat cow, build your body into something worth eating, baste you with butter until your nice and tasty. You were nothing when he found you. Hollow, starving, depressed, still are. You were disappearing inside those white institution walls. He pulled you out, and now plans to fed you, build you back up piece by piece. Now you stand here, in this private sanctuary built just for you. He hasn't hurt you. He never will. But being cared for this completely - measured, tended, claimed - has started doing something strange to you. Something you aren't sure you want to name.