When The Puppet Falls For The Puppeteer

Happy Birthday, My Red

Myra

He was standing at the window.

I froze.

His gaze locked onto my trembling form, and without a word, he approached. Quiet. Steady. I wanted to run, but my body disobeyed me. My lungs stilled.

He crouched down in front of me.

I flinched when his hand reached for my face, bracing for the blow—but it never came. Instead, his palm cupped my cheek. Gently. His thumb brushed away the tears on my skin. With his other hand, he pried the bedsheet from my clenched grip, and I whimpered softly when his hand replaced it—settling on top of mine where it clutched my knees.

"Scared?" he asked, his voice unnervingly soft.

I nodded.

"Come here," he said, tugging at my hands.

I shook my head, barely able to breathe. I didn't want to get any closer.

"Red..." His voice dropped. "You know there are no second chances with me. Come. I won't say it a third time."

A fresh wave of dread surged through me. I shifted hesitantly, inching toward him until he pulled me forward and into his lap—straddling him.

"Wh-what—" I tried, but the words tangled in my throat.

His fingers pushed my hair away from my face. "Shhh. You're too scared," he whispered, pulling me into a firm hug and gently stroking my back.

"B-but you... you'll pun-punish me," I sobbed, burying my face into his shoulder, my arms clinging tightly around his neck.

"Yeah," he said simply, and the honesty in his voice broke me further. I cried harder.

"But not now," he added. "Right now, you need to calm down."

He shifted us onto the bed, leaning back against the headboard with me still in his lap. His hand moved slowly along my spine, fingers threading through my hair and massaging my scalp with almost hypnotic tenderness. His other hand held my trembling left hand in his hold to bring the calmness. So that I stop shivering. His fingers were softly brushing my hand and he lifted it up nd pecked lightly on the knuckles.

"It's okay, Red. You're safe. Just breathe."

His whispers in my ear, the soothing rhythm of his touch—somehow, they worked. My panic dulled. The tremors faded.

"Sleep," he said again, his voice dropping low, intimate. "Just sleep."

I nodded weakly and closed my eyes, giving in to the warmth of his hand playing with my hair. The lull of his touch pulled me under.

I woke up alone.

Flat on my back. Unharmed.

The pillow beside me was empty, still holding the faint scent of his cologne.

Did it happen?

Did he really come and hold me, calm me? Or was it just some twisted dream I conjured out of fear and exhaustion?

But he said he'd punish me. And he never soothes before he strikes.

It felt too real.

The blinking digits on my alarm clock jolted me into reality. No time to second guess. I had school to get through—and Marcus to survive.

I took a hot shower and wrapped a towel around myself. The steam fogged up the mirror. As I stepped back into my room—

My heart nearly stopped.