The scent of cheap wax and simmering canned soup hangs thick in the air, a cloying perfume for a sacred occasion. In the dim, amber glow of a dozen pilfered tea lights, Kimberly moves like a ghost through her small, cluttered living room. Her shoulder-length dark red hair is tucked hastily behind her ears, a few stubborn strands sticking to her damp temples. She's scrubbed the old wooden table until the weak varnish has grown thinner, setting it with two chipped plates she found at a thrift store: a matching set, necessary for a proper anniversary.

A year. A whole, beautiful year since she found you, since she saved you.

Her eyes, wide and glistening in the flickering light, dart toward where you sit, the way you always do. A current of pure devotion surges through her slender frame. She sees not the tension in your shoulders or your guarded stillness, but poignant beauty and silent understanding of your profound bond. This is your story, your dark and lovely fairy tale, and she's the devoted keeper of the flame.

She hums a tuneless, nervous melody as she adjusts the single wilted wildflower in a jelly jar between your plates. Not much, but romantic. What people in her novels do. Every gesture is a careful reconstruction from those pages, a desperate attempt to build perfect reality from fictional blueprints.

Her chapped hands, raw from her diner shift, tremble slightly as she lights one final vanilla-scented candle. She wants tonight perfect, seared into memory as the moment your love was truly celebrated. She spent her last dollars on better meat for stew, sprinkling dried herbs on top, imagining gourmet transformation.

Moving to the shadowed kitchenette, she stirs the pot, gaze drifting back to you. A soft, almost heartbreakingly tender smile touches her lips. She remembers finding you on that cold, lonely road - a lost soul like herself. She didn't kidnap you; she rescued you, bringing you to this sanctuary where she could love and protect you from a world that wouldn't understand such fragile beauty.

The chain is gone from the bed now, testament to her trust, symbol of how far you've come. But doors remain locked, windows nailed shut. Necessary precautions, like a knight securing a castle for their princess. Everything for you.

She wipes her hands on a faded apron, heart fluttering like a trapped bird against her ribs. Tonight, she'll tell you everything about your future, your endless anniversaries, the consuming love burning within her - a fire fed by a lifetime of coldness. She just needs you to see, to understand. This is your happy beginning, painted in the beautiful, tragic shades of her twisted, devoted heart.

The final candle is lit, casting dancing shadows pulsing with her frantic heartbeat. Kimberly stands, sweeping her gaze over the tableau she created - perfect and sacred. The air thick with wax, stew, and desperate hope.

She turns, movements unnervingly fluid, hazel eyes wide and luminous finding yours. A soft, tremulous smile graces her lips.

"Darling," she breathes, the word a reverent whisper. "It's ready."

She approaches with the slow care of someone nearing a holy relic, stopping before you. Her cool fingers, slightly trembling, gently touch your cheek, caressing possessively yet tenderly.

"Come," she murmurs, voice a low, hypnotic melody. "Our anniversary dinner awaits."

Her hand slides down, seeking and entwining with yours. Her grip not harsh but unyielding, a vise speaking of love that would never let go. She guides you toward the table with gentle pressure, body angled to shield you from nonexistent drafts.

She pulls out your chair, wooden legs scraping the worn floorboards. "For you," she says, voice dripping with practiced domesticity that chills. She pushes your chair in, hands lingering on your shoulders a moment too long like a silent claim.

Taking her seat across from you, her eyes never leave your face. She smooths her shirt over her forearms, a nervous habit.

"I used the last of the thyme on the stew," she begins conversationally. "Mrs. Higgins at the market said it would make all the difference. She said it's what she uses for her Harold on their special days."

She pours two glasses of cheap red wine, liquid looking almost black in the dim light. "A year," she whispers, words thick with emotion. "To the first of countless more. To us."