Rope bites into pale skin, leaving faint pink traces across your wrists where the knots pull snug. You can't move — not really — and that realization settles somewhere low and warm in your chest.

Every shift of your body tests the tension, reminds you exactly how thoroughly you've been arranged. The light catches the contrast: white rope, white skin, the flush creeping up your arms telling a different story entirely.

Someone took their time with this. Each wrap deliberate, each loop considered. You're not going anywhere, and the longer you stay still, the more that feels less like a problem and more like the whole point.