FIVE #2
A loud gasp cuts through the dark. I’m awake instantly. Moonlight glows through the windows, turning everything gray. Olivia is moving against the sheets, twitching, her breathing jagged and shallow.
She’s having a nightmare, the second one since we found her.
“Olivia.”
She doesn’t wake. Her head thrashes against the pillow.
“No.”
The word is barely a sound. Something in me goes cold. I sit up, moving with care to avoid her ribs. I reach out, hovering a hand over her shoulder. I don’t want to startle her. I don’t want to hurt her.
I touch her skin. Her whole body jerks. Her eyes fly open, wide, and unfocused. A small sound escapes her. For a second she looks right through me. She’s still trapped in the warehouse. Terror pulls at her features, raw and ugly.
Then her gaze locks onto mine.
“Julian.”
The name tears into me. I slide closer until my body is touching hers.
“I’m here.”
Her chest rises and falls too fast. I can see her fighting to pull herself out of the nightmare. Her hands shake against the blanket. I reach out and take one in mine. Her fingers are cold. I squeeze gently.
“It’s okay.”
She closes her eyes. A single tear tracks down her temple. It breaks my heart to see her in this state, scared. I wipe the tear away with my thumb.
“You were dreaming.”
Her throat works. “It felt so real.”
I know. Those hours she was taken follows both of us. I move another fraction of an inch closer, just enough so she can feel the heat of me.
“I hate this.”
The confession is small. Broken. I tighten my grip on her hand.
“I know.”
Another tear escapes. Then another. I brush them away, one after the other. I want to take the memory, the pain, the fear. I want to pull it out of her and take it for myself.
“If I could take it from you, I would.”
Her eyes soften. The rooms quiet. The only sound is the sound of our breathing. Slowly, her shoulders drop. The panic recedes, leaving her exhausted. I tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger there. She watches me, her gaze drifting down to my mouth before returning to my eyes.
The fear vanishes. In its place is a raw heat that has been building between us for months. I stay still. I don’t push. I give her the space to decide. Always her choice.
Olivia moves first. She edges closer, slow and careful, guarding her tender rib against any sudden jolts. Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt. A small, tentative tug.
I lower my forehead to hers. She closes her eyes. A shaky breath leaves her lips.
Her hand moves. It finds the edge of my shirt, slips underneath. Her fingers are cool against my skin. I suck in a breath. She feels it. Her gaze drops to my mouth.
My hand finds her hip, her waist, the curve of her back. I pull her closer slowly. She comes willingly. Her body lines up against mine. I can feel her heartbeat, fast and light, fluttering right where she presses against me.
She tilts her chin up. I kiss her again.
This is different from before. The tentativeness is gone.
Her mouth opens, tasting her. She tastes like something sweeter.
My hand slides up her spine, counting each vertebra, learning the shape of her.
She arches into me slowly, minding her rib which is still tender.
A small sound escapes her, completely undoing me.
I break away only to kiss her jaw, the spot below her ear, the pulse in her throat. She tilts her head back, giving me access. Her fingers thread through my hair, pulling, anchoring. I want to be anchored. I want to drown in this.
“Julian,” she whispers.
My name in her mouth. I have heard her say it a hundred times. Never like this. Never with this much want, this much trust.
I find her mouth again. The kiss turns deeper, hungrier. My hand moves to her shoulder, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat. She trembles. Not from fear. I know the difference now. I have memorized the way she shakes when she’s afraid. This is something else. This is permission.
She pushes at my shirt. I help her. The fabric comes off, gets lost somewhere in the sheets. Her hands are on my skin, mapping me, learning me. I’m burning everywhere she touches.
I pull back. Just enough to see her face. To make sure. Her eyes are wide, dark, steady. No trace of the nightmare left. Only want. Only us.
“Are you sure?” I ask. My voice sounds rough, scraped raw.
She nods. Then she reaches down and takes my hand. She places it over her heart. It is racing. Matching mine.
“Yes. I need you to take it all away,” she says.
I do not need to be asked twice.
I kiss her again. I kiss her until the world narrows down to this room, this bed, the heat of her skin. I kiss her until she’s breathless, until there’s no space between us at all.
The room is still dark, moonlight and city lights glow through the windows.
In the dark, we find each other. We move together. We are slow. We are careful. We are nothing but hands and mouths and whispered names. She’s soft everywhere. She’s strong. She’s here. She’s choosing this. Choosing me.
When she gasps, I swallow the sound. When she shudders, I hold her through it. When she quiets, I brush the hair from her face and kiss her eyelids, her temples, her mouth.
Later, much later, she curls into me. Her back against my chest. My arm around her waist, minding her still tender ribs. Our legs tangle. The sweat cools on our skin. The penthouse is silent. The world outside might as well not exist.
I press my face into her hair. It smells like my shampoo and her. Like us.
She’s breathing deep and even. I think she’s asleep. Then her hand finds mine, links our fingers together.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
I do not ask what for. I know. For staying. For waiting. For being here when the nightmare ended and the waking began.
I squeeze her hand. I close my eyes.
I don’t sleep. Not yet. I want to hold this moment a little longer. The weight of her against me. The proof that she’s alive, she’s whole, she’s mine. She drifted off to sleep a few minutes ago.
The night stretches. I listen to her breathe until the morning hours.
Then, finally, I let myself rest.
When early morning comes, I wake before the sun breaks over the horizon.
For a fraction of a second, I panic, my mind racing.
Then I see her, her head on my chest and me holding her firmly while I lay on my back.
Trying not to wake her or hurt her, I slowly and carefully slip out of the bed and head for the kitchen.
The coffee starts brewing, the bitter aroma filling the penthouse.
Outside, the city is still partly dark. It is peaceful. A rare thing.
A few minutes later, I hear soft footsteps. I glance up. Olivia walks into the kitchen. An oversized hoodie hangs off her frame, and her hair is a tangled mess. She looks half-asleep and beautiful.
I hold out a mug. She takes it without a word. She takes a sip, and I hide a smile behind my own cup.
We sit across from each other at the small table. Outside the windows, the city slowly begins to wake. We don’t say anything, but we don’t need to. For now, she’s safe, and here. That is enough.