When The Puppet Falls For The Puppeteer

Between Command and Comfort

Myra

The music downstairs pulsed faintly through the walls, but up here, it was quiet. Too quiet. I sat at the edge of his bed, hands clasped in my lap, the taste of whiskey still bitter on my tongue. I wasn't drunk, not really. Just... unsteady, sleepy. And tired. The kind of tired that sank into your bones.

I'd done what he asked. I'd arranged the party. I'd danced. I'd obeyed. I didn't snap back when Jess humiliated me. I swallowed every insult. I drank when he told me to. I defended him. I let him defend me. And now I waited. In his room. Like I was supposed to. Maybe that's why I didn't have a rough, hurtful day. Because I obeyed.

The door opened and closed behind him with a soft click. I didn't look up until I felt him draw near.

"You locked it?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yeah."

He didn't say anything for a moment. Just walked past me, pouring himself another drink from the small bar in the corner.

"I'm not mad about the slap," he said finally. "He deserved it."

I glanced up at him. "I know."

He turned then, slowly, studying me. "You okay?" He asked caressing my hair

The question caught me off guard. I hesitated, unsure if it was a trap or something real.

"I'm... fine."

His eyes were unreadable again. I wished I could see past that-just once. Wished he'd let me.

"You did good tonight," he said.

And stupidly, pathetically, my heart lifted at those words. I wanted to believe they meant something more than just approval. I wanted them to mean he saw me.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He reached out, brushing his fingers along my jaw, and for one heartbeat, I thought he might kiss me. That maybe, tonight would be different.

But he didn't. His touch lingered only a second longer before he turned away.

"Get some sleep," he said over his shoulder.

And I was left in his room, sitting alone in the echo of a tenderness that never came.

The soft click of the door echoed louder in my chest than it did in the room.

I stared at the spot he'd stood just seconds ago, still feeling the ghost of his touch on my cheek, the back of his fingers brushing against my skin so gently it almost felt imagined. Almost.

I didn't know how long I sat there-on the edge of his bed, knees pressed together, hands clasped so tightly my knuckles had turned white. I wasn't even blinking. Just... suspended.

He said I did good tonight.
He asked if I was okay.
He touched my face.

But that was it.

That was all.

I let out a shaky breath, and something inside me cracked-like a tiny fracture in glass that suddenly spiderwebs through the whole surface. I leaned forward, curling in on myself, and pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes as the tears began to come. Silent. Reluctant. Embarrassed.

What was I doing?

Why was I hoping?

I hated this. Hated that I craved more than his approval. That I clung to scraps like a starving dog, hoping that maybe-just maybe-if I did everything right, if I stayed obedient, quiet, useful... he might look at me and feel something real.