Loraine's silence became permanent.
Not stubborn.
Not dramatic.
Permanent.
Jason noticed it in the smallest things—the way she no longer reacted when he entered a room, the way her body moved only when instructed, like she had learned that stillness was the safest shape to exist in.
She did not speak.
She did not ask.
She did not resist.
And somehow, that frightened him more than her screams ever had.
The House Without Threats
The house did not change.
No symbols.
No ceremonies.
No dark preparations.
Instead, it became painfully ordinary.
Too quiet.
Too controlled.
Jason removed anything that might overwhelm her—music, visitors, mirrors. He made the world smaller because he believed it would make her feel safe.
"You don't need everything," he told her gently one morning as he closed the curtains. "You only need what won't hurt you."
She sat on the bed, staring at nothing.
He hated that she didn't look at him anymore.
When He Finally Explains
That night, Jason sat beside her—not touching, not crowding.
Just close enough.
"I know you think I lied to you," he said quietly. "But I didn't. Not about loving you."
She didn't move.
Jason swallowed.
"What you saw… that doesn't change what I feel," he continued. "It never has."
Her hands tightened in the blanket.
"You and I are bound," he said softly. "Not because I forced you. Because you chose me. Every step of the way."
Her breathing became shallow.
"You stayed," he said. "You married me. You promised."
He turned to her, eyes searching her face desperately.
"That bond doesn't disappear just because you're afraid."
Still—silence.
Jason's voice cracked.
"I didn't plan to show you that side of me," he whispered. "I wanted you to know me first. To love me first."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
Jason inhaled sharply.
Her Body Betrays Her
He reached out slowly—paused—then rested his hand near hers.
Not touching.
Waiting.
Her body reacted anyway.
A sharp inhale.
A tremor in her fingers.
Her shoulders curling inward instinctively.
Jason saw it all.
"You see?" he said softly. "You still feel me."
She shook her head weakly.
"You don't need words," he insisted. "Your body remembers."
That made her cry.
Silent tears. Broken. Endless.
Jason backed away immediately.
"I won't," he said quickly. "I won't touch you. I promise."
He sat on the floor instead, leaning against the bed.
"I just need you to understand," he murmured. "This bond—this thing between us—it doesn't break easily."
She hugged herself, rocking slightly.
Her silence wasn't acceptance.
It was survival.
The End of the Night
Jason stayed awake until dawn.
Watching her breathe.
Counting her blinks.
Listening for any sound she might make.
She never spoke.
But when the light crept into the room, her eyes finally shifted—just for a moment—and met his.
Jason smiled softly.
Relieved.
She looked away.
Questions That Don't Need Answers Yet
If a bond is built on fear, is it still real?
When the body reacts but the heart withdraws, which one tells the truth?
Does Jason believe in love—or ownership?
And how long can silence protect her
before it becomes the reason he tightens his hold?