Is my soul too dark for you?
Oliver doesn’t speak right away. He steers me to the car, turns the heater on, cranks the seat warmer, and waits while I rub my freezing fingers over his hand.
“I was in the hospital for days,” I say, shaking my head. “They thought I might have been confused.”
His grip tightens on the gearshift until the veins stand out. “Why weren’t they charged?”
“No proof.” The air inside the car seems to thin. “I don’t even know how they got away with it…I was in a fucking escape room at a traveling carnival, and not one camera or person saw.”
“Blaine?”
“He didn’t know I was taken. He texted to reschedule our date. I never saw it. He was with Molly before, and I think she texted me to meet in the parking lot and deleted it.”
I take a breath. “He did everything right. Cut them off, stayed by my side. But I…I wasn’t sleeping or eating.” My voice cracks. “I didn’t give him the option to choose.” I meet Oliver’s gaze. “I left.”
The silence in the car is different now.
Heavy. “It took going away, leaving…to find myself again,” I continue.
“I rebuilt day by day. I healed. I grew. I realized that they didn’t get to decide who I am.
I wasn't going to be a victim. I wanted to be a survivor. I stayed with my family for finals and then left for Italy. I came back because I was done running.”
Something flickers in his eyes. “You aren’t leaving me.”
How do I trust the heart of a man wired for obsession, not love? I know what I feel for him. Terrifying, bright, all-consuming. Can he give it back? My limbs feel heavy with everything I have handed him. I sink into the seat and close my eyes.
He shifts into gear. “Let’s get you back.”
The drive is quiet. I roll open the sunroof as we cross the long bridge back to the island.
The cold, salty air brushes my skin, a complete contrast to the warm air blasting from the vents.
We don’t pull up to my building. Instead, Oliver parks outside his.
I glance over at him, confused, but he’s already stepping out of the car and circling to open my door.
We don’t speak as we walk up. We don’t even when we finally enter.
His room is similar to mine, but it has a full private bathroom.
The window looks out over the dense woods behind the building.
I walk around his space, mimicking the way he had explored mine.
I don’t know what I expected, something clinical, maybe.
But his room is surprisingly normal. Dark-gray bedding on a queen-sized bed.
A fluffy comforter. A small two-person sofa in front of a TV.
What catches my eye, though, is the small shelf lined with books.
Titles like: The Psychopath and Their Emotions
“Just some light reading?” I say, sliding a finger along a spine, creating a tapping sound.
“Pretty much.” He shrugs.
“Why do you have all of these?”
“To understand the way I’m wired. I wasn’t born like this. At least I don’t think I was.”
I turn from the books to him. “From your dad?”
“Likely. A counselor pushed therapy when I was ten. They called it a trauma response.” His shoulders barely move, but I feel the shift. “Repetition shapes outcomes. You learn which version of you survives.”
“Can…” I hesitate, unsure if he or I are ready to dive into this after the heavy night we just had. “You told me he hit you.” I suck in my lips.
“Don’t get shy on me now.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“Lyra.”
Exhaling, I weigh my words. “I need to know what to avoid so I don’t hurt you by accident. If I had known, I never would’ve slapped you, no matter what we were doing.”
He softens. “The house was supposed to be silent. Any sound he didn’t request was a mistake.
Same with mess. Some days, I wasn’t allowed to leave my room, or if I did, I had to be in the backyard.
Callan, Vienna, and their mom lived in the pool house on the edge of our property.
I’d sit near it to hear their laughter. I could never understand why they were so happy.
I used to think that if I could just figure out what I did wrong to make my dad hate me.
” My heart cracks with every passing word.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He looks away from me, staring out the window. “I learned how to disappear in plain sight. It was easier than trying to be better. By the time I was eight, I had shut down completely. That’s why sometimes I don’t like silence, but other times I do. It’s why I listen more than idle chitchat.”
It’s in these rare, unguarded moments that he feels most real to me. “Does hurting people not affect you? Even in the slightest.”
“No.” He says it matter-of-factly. “Until you.”
I go and sit in the chair by the window, glancing at the book tucked away in the side.
Overcoming nightmares.
I trace my finger over the title. “It’s weird to think the person who doesn't feel makes me feel so much,” I admit.
“Come here.”
I pad over, barefoot. “I think you just got better at not showing it.” He takes my hand, pulling me gently toward the bathroom.
It’s dimly lit, with sleek gray tiles. Silence settles between us as if our voices could break this serene moment, even with the heaviness around us. But is it really heavy anymore? I feel like I finally let go of those last threads to the past.
Oliver steps closer, placing his warm hands on my hips before skimming up my sides, taking my shirt with him. My pants follow. He drops to his knees in front of me, pressing his lips against the scar on my stomach.
“Ten stitches.” I rasp.
He stands, eyes locked with mine. I tug his shirt over his head; my fingers skim up his stomach, over the lean lines of his muscles, along his collarbones, down his arms. I unfasten his jeans and drag the zipper down.
He strips the rest away, turns on the water, and pulls me gently into the shower. Showering with someone is more naked than sex. No mask. No performance. Just skin, breath, and closeness. We wash each other in silence, taking turns.
“Why do you have my bodywash?”
“So I can have your smell embedded into my skin even when you aren’t around.”
“You, Oliver Caldwell, are crazy.” I lather his shampoo into his hair, standing on my tiptoes.
He hums in contentment. I wonder if he’s ever done this with anyone, but even as I think it, I know he hasn’t. I run soap over his body, taking my time as he does with me. After, he wraps me in a towel, tight like a burrito. All of a sudden, exhaustion weighs me down.
“Sit on the bed. Face the window,” he orders.
I drop the towel, trade it for a blanket, and settle in. A moment later, the bed dips behind me. His hands gather my hair, tugging it back gently as the brush glides through the strands.
I tip my head back, enjoying the feeling of the brush running along my scalp. “You’re being sweet.”
“I don’t do sweet.”
I smile. “Then what is this?”
“Me taking care of you. Now get in.”
He climbs into bed, pulling me against him, the comforter cocooning us in warmth. “You know, I think I like cuddles now,” I say.
“Then I’ll cuddle the shit out of you.”
Just before I slip into sleep, I hear him so faintly I think I imagined it. “When I tell you my truth, you’ll look at me differently. And I’m not ready to watch you flinch.”