Silk sheets. Soft humming. The scent of something floral and too-sweet in the air. Your wrists are bound with a ribbon — not rope — as if restraint could be made romantic. The room is dim, lit by string lights strung along unfamiliar walls. And he is there, seated close, watching you with an expression that looks disturbingly like relief. His name is Soleil. You barely knew him — a passing moment, a small kindness you've already forgotten. He has not forgotten. He has thought of nothing else for months. He doesn't see a captive when he looks at you. He sees someone who finally came home.