Chapter 45
Josephine
I wake up basking in an aura of crimson as sunlight filters through one of the stained-glass panels of the cupola.
I swear I sleep better here than anywhere else. It’s the safety of this space, the security Kylian’s presence gives me. The soundproofing and lack of windows don’t hurt either.
Kylian stirs, pulling me close and kissing my hair before throwing his arm over his eyes.
“Can you hand me my glasses?” he asks, his voice scratchy and sexy from sleep. It sends flashes of last night racing through my mind immediately. The echoes of all the delicious, dirty things he whispered send shivers through me.
I snag his glasses off the side table, inspecting the thick lenses for a moment before handing them over.
“How bad is your vision?” I ask on a yawn.
“Awful. My prescription’s 20/80.”
“Why don’t you wear contacts?” I ask.
His body stiffens, almost as if I’ve hit a nerve.
Which doesn’t ever happen with Kylian. I lift my head, hoping I can read his thoughts in his expression, but he’s staring, straight-faced, at the patterns created by the sun and the stained-glass on the ceiling.
I wait a few more seconds, then eventually accept his discomfort in the topic and rest my head on his chest.
He wraps his arms around me and pulls me in tighter. “Have you ever worn contacts?”
I shake my head. I’ve never been to an actual eye doctor, but in elementary school, the school nurse administered eye examines and said I had perfect vision.
“They’re the worst. I can see them. I can see them, and I can feel them. And it’s all I can think about when they’re resting against my eye.” He twitches and shudders. “Most people get used to it. But I can’t. It’s a tactile defensiveness thing. I just can’t deal.”
“I was just curious,” I say, stroking a hand up and down his chest in an attempt to soothe him. Even if I don’t understand what’s wrong, he’s obviously agitated.
“That’s what I do, Jo. I fixate,” he whispers.
I don’t stop my movements and I don’t respond. I leave him be while he remains lost in thought.
“I want to tell you something. Promise you won’t get weird.”
I still. That’s… quite the lead in. But I trust him. And there’s nothing he could say to change what’s grown between us.
“I’m on the spectrum,” he whispers hoarsely.
“Meaning?” I ask plainly.
“I’m autistic.”
I nod against his chest. I know he’s neurodivergent. I didn’t know his preference for how he likes to refer to it, but now I do. I’m grateful he shared it with me in his own way.
I love how his mind works. I love the focus and the clarity. There’s safety of being with him, because he takes the guesswork out of things for me. And knowing he feels close enough, safe enough, to open up to me makes my chest ache and my heart beat a little faster.
“Okay. Thanks for telling me.” I kiss his stomach and snuggle closer.
He lets out a loud scoff. “No, not okay, Jo.”
“Why not okay?” I laugh uneasily as dread bubbles in my stomach. I turn my head and tilt my chin to look at him, and he hits me with a steely gaze.
“Because that’s not the appropriate response,” he counters.
“Wait. Is this a test? You told me not to make it weird.” I laugh again, because now I’m really uncomfortable, and I don’t know what he wants me to say.
“It doesn’t bother you?” he pushes, a frown marring his face and accusation in his voice.
“Doesn’t what bother me?”
“That you hooked up with a freak?”
I bolt upright, anger coursing through my veins. “Kylian,” I grit out. I wait until he looks at me before continuing. “Don’t ever say that about yourself again. And of course it doesn’t bother me.”
He holds my gaze but doesn’t reply, so I continue.
“I guess I thought what we were doing was more than just hooking up,” I challenge.
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and a look of dismay replaces his frown. “It is. Shit. I’m fucking this up. Come here. Let me hold you.”
He opens his arms, and I cuddle into his embrace.
“I appreciate your transparency, but knowing the details changes nothing,” I assure him.
He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he arranges my limbs so he’s got me where he wants me. Until our bodies come together at a hundred different touch points. Finally, when I’m draped over him exactly to his liking, he asks, “When you say what we’re doing is more than hooking up…”
He lets the idea linger between us. He’s been open and vulnerable with me. I take a deep breath, mentally rallying my courage to do the same.
“I feel connected to you. You’re my safe space. The first one to be kind to me when I moved in. The first to view me as more than a liability. You’re the person I crave when the world feels like too much.”
He hums contentedly, but the moment is still charged. He may not expect anything more than what I’ve already shared, but I’m tired of holding back. Keeping secrets. Not trusting anyone fully. Not letting anyone know the real me.
“I want to tell you something now,” I offer. “The panic thing—”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Share something about yourself just because I shared.”
I smile against the warmth of his skin, peeking up to meet his gaze.
“How do you know that’s what I’m doing?” I tease.
He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “There’s a discernible pattern to intimacy. Back and forth. Ebb and flow. Conversation should be reciprocal whenever possible.”
It sounds like he’s reciting some sort of dating manual or advice guide, which galvanizes me in a way I wasn’t expecting.
Because everything we’re doing—this connection, both physical and emotional—takes concerted, intentional effort on Kylian’s part.
He’s gone to extreme lengths to care for me and to please me.
He’s putting in the work. He thinks I’m worth the effort. That realization compels me to keep going.
“I want to tell you. Not because I’m obligated, but because I want you to know.”
He shifts, arranging me in a new position but still holding me close. From here, I can’t quite see his eyes. But I do see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, then nods.
“I panic when it rains. Sometimes a little. Sometimes a lot. The more intense the storm, the deeper and longer I feel it. My official diagnosis is conversion disorder… but that’s just a catchall for the way I physically shut down when it gets really bad.”
His chest rises beneath me, and I close my eyes to savor the feeling.
The feeling of this moment.
The feeling before I say it.
The feeling before he knows.
“There’s more.”
I haven’t even decided how much more I want to tell him, nor am I sure how much I can articulate.
So I focus on the stained-glass panels of the cupola, staring for so long my eyes water.
Hues of crimson, sapphire, and amethyst swirl together in a blurry oil slick before I finally blink away the tears.
“There was… this time. In high school. I was outside, in the middle of the night, stranded in a thunderstorm. I was on the side of the road, lying in a gutter. I passed out eventually, but before that…”
Anxiety claws at my throat as I fight to keep my breathing steady.
I wish I could tell him more. Tell him everything. But my sense of self-preservation has a vise grip on the details of what happened that night.
“I was out there until the next day. Left for dead. The panic became part of me that night,” I admit in a whisper. “It always happens like that. I feel overwhelmed, then panic takes over. Every storm. Every time.”
His abs crunch below my now-damp cheek as he rises up slightly and pulls me higher. He kisses my hair, then circles both arms around me in an embrace that feels just as safe as it did a few minutes ago.
I hold my breath, waiting for the follow-up questions. The judgment. Knowing Kylian, we’re just getting started. He’ll push for details and need more information.
He tightens his arms around me, as if to warn me it’s coming. Then he speaks.
“What did you think about between the lightning and the thunder?”
There’s a hushed reverence to his tone that soothes my fretful thoughts. It’s such an odd question—typical Kylian—and yet it’s one I’m fully capable of answering.
The expansiveness of that night stretched on for lifetimes. So much of it I don’t remember. But this I do.
“I begged the sky to crack open and swallow me up for good.”
Fingers catch under my chin, tilting my head until I’m looking him in the eye.
“I’m really glad it didn’t,” he whispers. And then he captures my lips in a slow, sensual kiss that washes away every lingering bit of tension in my body.
Safe.
With Kylian, in this moment, in this room, on this isle, I’m safe.