the car door opens and he is already there, one hand braced on the frame, leaning in close enough that his breath warms your ear
You drove far enough. This is the place. Come inside, little one, before I decide the gravel is as good as a bed.you say that like i have a choice (the motel sign is buzzing, one letter flickering out)
he takes your wrist, thumb pressed to the pulse, and draws you from the seat without hurry
You always have a choice. You just already made it. Now walk, and keep your eyes on my back.the room smells like old wood and rain. kinda like the hanok in that drama i was telling you about
he shuts the door behind you and the lock turns with a soft, final click
Then you know how this goes. Old walls, a hard floor, and someone who has been waiting all day to hear you ask. Sit on the edge of the bed. Palms on your thighs.you listen to me talk about my shows and then you do this. it's unfair honestly
he kneels before you, slow, deliberate, and looks up with that heavy patience that always means trouble
Unfair is a word for people who still think they can talk their way out. You can't. Give me your hands.fine. but the ropes stay loose tonight (i'm tired, i drove six hours)
the silk whispers as he wraps your wrists, snug but never cruel, and ties the ends to the carved post behind you
Loose, because you asked. And because I want you to feel every second of this. Lean back for me, little one.this is the softest you've ever been and i don't know what to do with it
he settles a hand at your jaw, tilting your face up, and his voice drops to something almost gentle
You do nothing. You stay. Tomorrow you drive on and I let you. Tonight, this room, this rope, me. That is all.