18. Zyran #3
Shifting her weight more securely into my arms, I step out of the bathroom and across the hall to her room. She flinches suddenly as I push the door open, her body tensing in my arms.
“Too… bright,” she mumbles into my chest, the words slurred and barely more than a breath.
I slow immediately, glancing down at her, seeing her eyes squeezed shut, brows furrowing at the tiniest bit of light.
“Your head hurt?” I ask, keeping my voice down.
For a second I don’t think she heard me until her head shifts just the smallest amount against my chest. A weak nod.
The light spills through the window, cutting across the bed and the floor, brighter than the rest of the apartment. In quick movements, I stride across the bedroom and set her down carefully on the mattress, keeping a hand on her shoulder until I’m sure she isn’t going to roll off.
“Hang on,” I murmur.
Esperr curls instinctively toward the last pillow on the bed, one hand coming up to press against her temple.
Moving fast, I grab the blinds and yank them shut, the slats rattling softly as they drop.
The change is immediate; the harsh light that had been cutting across the room disappears, leaving only a soft, shadowed glow that filters through the edges of the blinds.
The air feels quieter now, calmer somehow, like the entire place just took a breath.
When I turn back to her, she has curled tighter on the mattress, her knees drawn up slightly and her fingers pressing harder against her temple as if she’s trying to push the pain away by force alone.
Even with her eyes closed, the tension in her body is palpable; every muscle is tight, pulled thin by whatever is drilling through her skull.
I move back toward the bed slowly, watching for any sign that the movement or the noise might make things worse.
She doesn’t open her eyes; only her lashes flutter slightly before settling again. The small shift in her shoulders tells me the darker room helped, even if she doesn’t have the energy to tell me.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, careful with my weight. When the bed dips under me, her body stiffens, her reaction automatic, and I pause for a second, waiting until she relaxes again. Reaching over, I gently guide her hand away from her temple.
“Easy, il mio cuore,” I whisper.
Instead of pulling away from me, she shifts toward me.
The movement is subtle at first, just a small turn of her shoulders and the quiet slide of the blanket as she moves closer.
I hesitate for a breath before climbing fully onto the bed beside her.
The mattress sinks as I stretch out next to her, giving her enough space that she won’t feel trapped if she wakes up disoriented.
And in the next moment she closes the distance, curling herself into my side like it’s instinct. Her forehead presses against my chest while her fingers gather weakly in the fabric of my shirt. The contact is light but deliberate, as if her body has already decided where she wants to be.
Something tight pulls low in my chest.
I carefully slide one arm around her shoulders to keep her stable, and with the other arm, I reach up to the base of her neck, where the muscles feel stiff beneath my fingers.
I start rubbing slow circles along the back of her neck, just beneath her hairline, working the pressure into the spot where her skull meets her spine.
The tension there is brutal—no wonder she looks like she’s dying.
I keep the movement slow and steady, allowing my thumb to press into the tight muscle before releasing the pressure again. After a minute or two her breathing changes; the shallow, strained rhythm begins to deepen, each breath stretching a little longer than the last.
Her grip on my shirt loosens, and the tightness in her shoulders slowly melts under my hand.
Minutes pass like that, quiet and still.
Eventually her weight sinks heavier against me, her body going soft with sleep—at least I think she’s asleep. And I don’t stop rubbing the back of her neck, the motion becoming almost automatic now, something steady and grounding in her bedroom.
Her fingers twitch, and at first I think it’s just a dream, the kind of unconscious movement people make when they’re deep asleep. But then she shifts slightly against me, her voice rough with sleep. “Dont… don’t let him take me again.”
The words are barely louder than a breath, but they hit like a punch to the ribs. My hand stills against the back of her neck. Her breathing stays slow, her body still heavy against mine, but her fingers tighten weakly in my shirt like she’s holding onto something she can’t see.
My jaw tightens as I look down at the top of her head resting against my chest, my mind already moving.
Again.
That isn’t normal for someone to say.
And whatever she’s remembering, she’s not here right now; she’s somewhere else. Somewhere worse than even unconscious, she’s trying to fight it off.
I stare into the dim room, listening to the quiet rhythm of her breathing and the faint hum of the apartment around us, while my mind stays on one little fact.
Someone hurt her, and whoever it is better hope they’re already dead before I get my hands on them.