His To Keep

Fifteen Comforting Us.

Adrian Rosetti

She was too close.

Her soft, slow breathing ghosted against my chest, each exhale warm through the thin layer of fabric. She'd curled into me like this had happened a thousand times before.

It hadn't.

Her cheek rested just below my collarbone, lashes casting faint shadows on skin I could see too clearly in the morning light. One of her legs had tangled with mine, and sometime in the night she'd kicked the blanket halfway off.

I didn't move. Couldn't. My abdomen throbbed-a deep, raw ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat. Every breath stretched the wound, dragging a low burn through muscle and skin. The stitches the doctor had left felt too tight, too foreign.

How the hell had this happened?

I should've gone to my own room. Should've put space between us the moment her eyes closed. But I'd sat there like an idiot, letting exhaustion anchor me in place until the meds blurred the edges of the pain enough that sleep finally won.

Now it was morning, and she was pressed against me like I was something safe.

Like I hadn't killed three men last week without blinking.

Like I wasn't someone to fear.

I exhaled slowly, the motion tugging at my stitches until a sharp sting crawled across my side. My jaw locked against the sound it tried to pull out of me.

My gaze drifted to her mouth-slightly parted, soft. No. I wasn't going there.

She stirred faintly, her hand brushing against my side where the bandages were. Even that small contact made the ache flare, but I didn't pull away. She made this tiny, breathy sound, not a word but... something. Something that twisted deeper than the knife had.

And then her voice from last night echoed in my head.

Please don't yell. I don't like it when people yell.

Why had she said that? Why did it bother me more than the stab wound?

I could still hear the crack in her voice, see the way her shoulders had hunched-like she was bracing for something that never came.

What had been done to her?

I should ask. I wouldn't. Not yet. Too much softness makes people weak, and I was already slipping.

I shifted, my arm brushing her back. She was wearing that same silk tank and small pink shorts from last night-the ones that made her look too much like something untouched. Too pink. Too revealing.

Too much skin. Too much leg. Too much everything.

I hated that my eyes lingered.

Hated the thought of her walking around like this in front of anyone but me. Especially the guards. Especially the one on the second floor who looked at her too long. I'd warned him once. If it happened again, there wouldn't be a warning.

This house wasn't built for innocence. I'd made it cold, sharp-edged, locked-down. A place where softness had no air to breathe.

Until her.

Now I was waking up with a girl in my arms, thinking about the rhythm of her breathing, the sound she'd made in her sleep, and the way her eyes had looked last night when I was bleeding out on the hardwood.

She hadn't screamed.

She hadn't run.

She'd caught me-trembling arms straining to hold me upright-and stayed there, holding pressure against my side, begging the doctor to hurry.

Why?

Why care for a man like me? Why cry over me like I was worth saving?

The pain in my side throbbed again, deep and insistent. I could still feel her hands from last night, slick with my blood, shaking but steady.

My fingers twitched against her spine before I could stop them.

I should get up.

Put distance between us before my ribs start screaming louder, before my side locks up from staying in one position too long.

But I don't. I just sit there, sunk into the couch, telling myself it's because moving will hurt like hell.

Truth is, that's only part of it. The other part-the one I'm not admitting-is that something about this moment is keeping me here.

My eyes drift to the clear vase on the end table. The water's still clean, the pale flowers trimmed neat, their stems cut at an angle. The kind of thing that doesn't belong in a place like mine. I let out a low breath and keep looking.

From here, I can see the rest of the living room.

Picture frames lined up along the shelf, each one set down like it mattered exactly where it went.

A bundle of dried flowers tied with ribbon, placed with that kind of quiet care you can't fake.

She must've spent hours doing this-sitting here, deciding where every little thing belonged.

It's a softness that doesn't fit my world.

I'm still looking when I feel the shift beside me. Small at first, then more deliberate. She's waking-slow, like she's not ready to be pulled back into the day.

Her eyes blink open, hazy and unfocused, until they land on me. Then she freezes.

The panic starts in her breathing-one sharp inhale-and then she jerks back. The sudden movement tugs at my side, and pain flares hot under my ribs. A groan slips out before I can bite it back, rough and low.

That sound makes her flinch even harder. "I-" Her voice cracks. "I'm sorry, I didn't- I didn't mean to-"

She's already shaking her head, hands lifting in front of her like she's trying to push the air between us back into place.

"I shouldn't have- God, I shouldn't have fallen asleep on you.

I didn't mean to hurt you, I wasn't thinking, I-" Her voice keeps tumbling forward, stumbling over itself.

"I'm sorry for- for touching you, for being- I should've moved-"

Her hands tremble harder, her fingers flexing like she's trying to find somewhere to put them but doesn't dare. Her eyes shine, not quite spilling over, but it's close. She looks like she's bracing for impact, like she's waiting for the worst.

"Lily-" I try to cut in, my voice low, but she keeps going.

"I wasn't trying to- I mean, I just- I didn't mean for any of it to happen," she says, the words coming faster now, like if she gets them all out before I answer, maybe she can keep whatever she's afraid of from happening.

And I just sit there, watching her unravel.

Her words keep spilling-fast, messy, the edges of them fraying. My side aches with each shift she makes, but it's not the pain that finally gets to me. It's the way she's looking at me like she's standing in front of a loaded gun.

I reach out and catch her wrists.

She gasps. Just one sharp inhale, but it's enough to make the rest of her go still.

"Calm the fuck down," I tell her, my voice low, even. "You need to stop apologizing."

Her wide eyes stay locked on me. She swallows hard. "Okay," she says, so quietly it's barely sound.

It's then I notice how tight I'm holding her. My fingers loosen immediately, letting go. I fall back into the couch with a rough exhale, my side pulling hard enough to drag a groan out of me. Both hands drag down my face, trying to scrub off the weight of the moment.

"I've gotta get ready for work," I mutter, voice still thick from sleep.

I move to sit up and pain explodes through my abdomen-hot, stabbing, like the knife just slid in again. My hand goes instinctively to the wound, but I grit my teeth and keep pushing myself upright.

"No."

Her voice is sharp with worry, enough to make me glance up. She's already on her feet, leaning over me. Her palms barely press against my upper chest, but the touch is firm enough to send a warning. She pushes, just a little, guiding me back into the couch.

"You shouldn't get up," she says, and there's a nervous tremor under the words. "The doctor said you need bed rest."

My eyes flick down to her hands, still against me. "Fuck that," I say. "I've got shit to do."

I try to move again, but she pushes harder this time, using her whole body like she's trying to anchor me to the cushions.

Truth is, she's not really keeping me down. I could lift her weight like she's nothing, toss her aside without effort. But she doesn't need to know that. Not when she's looking at me like this-brows pulled tight, mouth set, refusing to back off. I'm enjoying this side of her more than I should.

Her voice catches, but she forces the words out anyway. "No. You need to stay. Rest. Your body needs to heal."

I stare down at her, chest still burning from the stab wound and the groan from trying to move, and the thought hits me like a punch: is she actually telling me what to do?

"Are you... telling me what to do?" My voice is low, hoarse from sleep and pain, but sharp.

Her eyes widen, panicked, and she stumbles back a step, hands fluttering in front of her like she's trying to shield herself from my ire. "N-no! I-I just... the doctor said-he said you need to rest. You probably... shouldn't go to work."

She bites her lip, voice trailing, unsure, eyes darting to mine like she expects me to explode. Then she mumbles, barely above breath, "You probably shouldn't have gotten up for a shower yesterday either..."

I can't help the smirk that tugs at the corner of my mouth. God, she's earnest, nervous, so painfully aware of every inch of space between us. I inhale slowly, letting her words sink in, letting the tiny amusement settle in my chest.

And... she's right. I probably shouldn't be thinking about work. Not today. Not while my side's still raw and angry. But part of me-an ugly, stubborn part I refuse to name-wants to see how far she'll go if I actually agree.

I shift slightly on the couch, wincing. "Fine," I say, the word grudging, low, and just barely clipped. "I'll... stay."

Her face softens, relief flickering, but then my irritation kicks back in almost immediately. "Where the fuck is my phone?" I add, voice rough.

Her eyes widen again, but this time there's urgency mixed with eagerness. "I'll grab it!" she blurts, and before I can stop her, she's already moving, nearly running across the living room to find it.

I watch her go, chest still tight from the pain, muscles tensed in that lingering post-injury soreness, and I can't help but appreciate the little fire she carries.

Small, frantic, and completely unguarded.

She has no idea how dangerous it is for her to be like this around me-and part of me doesn't want her to.

I sink back against the cushions, one hand resting lightly on the couch arm, and let her scurry away, thinking she's the one in control, all the while knowing I'm just humoring her.

She comes back a moment later, out of breath, phone clutched tightly in her hands. I don't move, just watch her cross the room and kneel briefly to set it on the couch beside me.

"Sit," I say, low and deliberate.

She freezes, then slowly nods, perching on the edge of the cushions like a doll. Straight back, hands folded neatly in her lap. I lean back into the couch, legs spreading, letting the leather take me.

I dial Logan. The line clicks, and his voice is already there, teasing. "About damn time, what the hell-"

"Not coming in today," I interrupt, keeping my voice steady. "Something came up last night. I need you to handle a few things for me. I'll email the details later."

There's a beat of silence. "Wait... you're actually not coming in? What happened?"

I let my voice stay calm, casual even, but my words carry weight. "Meeting went sideways. Someone got close enough to stab me before I finished things. Took care of it. No one left. You'll handle whatever needs attention today. I don't want a single mistake."

Another pause. "Holy-no one left?"

"No one," I repeat, cold and precise.

"Was Lily there? Did she see..." His voice drops. "...the blood? She wouldn't like that."

I glance toward her. She's sitting stiff, hands folded, staring down at them. "She was here when I got home," I say evenly. "Helped me. Kept me from bleeding out until the doctor arrived."

"Then I need to talk to her," he says sharply. "Just hand the phone over."

I lower my voice, letting the edge of annoyance creep in. "Why? What exactly do you need from her?"

"Just to talk to her, alright? You'll see why. Just-hand the phone."

I mutter under my breath, then slide it toward her. "Fine. But you better make it quick."

Her fingers tremble as she lifts the phone. I sink back into the cushions, letting my gaze drift to her hands for a moment, watching the tiny shakes. I say nothing, letting the silence stretch.

She lifts the phone to her ear, trembling slightly, her small fingers brushing against the smooth plastic.

I watch her posture immediately stiffen, the way she sits almost ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap before she even begins speaking.

Her voice is soft, careful-too soft-and I can hear her quick little breaths, the way she hesitates between words, like she's measuring every syllable against some invisible rule.

I don't hear what Logan says. I don't need to. I only hear her side of it.

"Yes... I-I'm fine," she stammers, fingers fidgeting at the hem of her shorts.

She glances down for a fraction of a second, and I catch that nervous tick in her shoulders, that slight tilt of her head, the way she keeps her body close to itself, like she's bracing for a reaction.

"I... I'm glad you're okay," she says again, softer this time, almost whispering.

Her voice is careful, measured, but I can hear the tremor beneath it. She's trying to keep everything contained, to be steady, but it's breaking just under the surface. My jaw tightens.

"Uh-huh... yes... I... I'll do my best. I already was planning to, I mean... I'll make sure he doesn't do too much. That he eats, whatever... yes." She nods, barely perceptible, as if she's reassuring both Logan and herself.

I notice the way her hands twist in her lap, fingers pressing against fabric, kneading the hem of her shorts like she's grounding herself against a storm she can't fully see.

"I... okay. Goodbye," she murmurs finally, voice small and hurried. She hands the phone back to me carefully, almost like it's a fragile object she doesn't want to drop.

I raise an eyebrow at her. Silent. Questioning.

She freezes, cheeks flushing, then stammers, "He... he just wanted to know how I was."

Her eyes are wide, flicking to mine briefly before darting away, toward the floor, toward anything that isn't me. She quickly straightens and stands, moving toward the kitchen with that same careful, precise motion, like she's trying not to disturb anything in her path.

"I'll... I'll make you breakfast," she says, tentative, glancing back at me over her shoulder. Then, before she fully turns away, she pauses. She hesitates. Breath catches in her throat. "I... can I? Or... is that okay?"

I feel the weight of it in my chest. The pause.

The way she's asking permission, not out of formality, but because she needs my approval.

And in that moment, the tight coil of control and.

.. something darker... something that stirs in my chest, tightens.

The knowledge that she's waiting, hesitating, yielding just enough that I could say yes or no.

I lean back slightly, letting the leather of the couch take me, the ache in my ribs and the dull throb of my stab wound grounding me in the moment. Slowly, I nod.

She exhales softly, relief flooding her, though she doesn't let it show. Just that tiny shift in her shoulders, that ever-so-slight relaxing of her hands, tells me everything.

And I stay still, silent, letting her take the motion in, letting her feel the weight of that quiet power, the control she doesn't realize I have over her... over the space, over the choices she makes in my presence.

I watch her in the kitchen, Lily moving with a quiet ease that's almost hypnotic.

The way she reaches for things, bends, carries the plates, folds her hands just right-it's not something I'm used to noticing, but I can't look away.

She's grown comfortable here, settled in the edges of this house like she belongs, like she owns some small piece of it.

My gaze lingers a second too long on the curve of her neck as she tilts her head to concentrate, then I shift back, reminding myself not to get distracted.

A soft creak pulls me from the rhythm of her movements. Footsteps. Slow. Predictable. I turn my head just in time to see Mary coming down the stairs.

Her eyes widen the moment she sees me.

"Adrian!" Her voice is sharp with surprise, but there's that warmth too. The kind she's carried for years.

I tilt my head, letting the corners of my mouth twitch into a faint, controlled smile. "Mary."

She freezes again, just for a second, taking in the state I'm in-hair ruffled, white shirt marked with tiny spots of blood that have seeped through the bandage, sweatpants that she's only ever seen me wear once, maybe twice.

Her lips part, a soft gasp. "What happened?"

I shrug, letting it sound casual, effortless. "I'm fine. No need to worry."

She huffs, stepping closer, her hand lightly shoving my shoulder, a gesture meant to knock some sense into me. "You stupid man," she scolds gently, almost fondly. "You need to take care of yourself. What are you thinking?"

I groan low in my throat, letting the sound rattle in the room. "It's fine. I'll heal."

She mutters under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear: "Dumb, stupid man..." Her eyes dart toward Lily for a brief moment before they return to me. Then, her tone shifts, a sudden sharpness creeping in.

"Wait," she says, hesitation tingeing her words. She straightens slightly, glancing at Lily again. "I have to tell you something."

I raise an eyebrow, keeping my expression calm but my chest tightening slightly in anticipation.

She moves to the couch, sitting down gently, careful not to disturb the space around her. I don't say a word, letting her make the first move.

Her voice drops to a quiet murmur, almost conspiratorial. "It's about Lily."

The air around me chills. Cold. Sharp. My gaze locks on her, measuring, calculating. I don't speak. I don't move. I wait.

I lean back into the couch, the leather creaking under my shoulder. "What happened?" My voice is flat, but it still feels like it cuts the air between us.

Mary exhales slowly. "She... opened up a little to me the other day.

Not much, but enough to get a sense of where she came from.

She said she lived in a house. Didn't say more than that.

Just that there were a handful of girls there, and they were.

.. trained? To be women?" She says the last part like a question, as if she's still trying to make sense of it herself.

I keep my face still, my tone colder. "Trained," I repeat, like the word has to pass some kind of test before it's allowed in the room.

Mary nods once, her eyes flicking away before she continues. "She cries at night. Not loud-quietly-but I hear it. Every night since she's been here."

"Crying?" I ask, not because I don't believe her, but because I need to hear her confirm it.

Mary meets my eyes this time. "Yes. I'm worried about her." Her voice softens even more, which somehow makes the words sharper. "And I'm worried about what you have planned for her."

I feel the muscle in my jaw tighten. Mary's sincerity is like a slow drip I can't stop-meant to wear me down, not in volume but in persistence.

First it was Logan with his thinly veiled concern, now Mary with her worried eyes.

They're all bending toward this girl like she's something fragile worth protecting.

I hate it.

Mary's words land like a slow, heavy punch, the kind that doesn't knock you over right away but leaves a deep ache spreading under the skin.

Every night. Crying. I picture her in that room, quiet enough to keep from waking anyone, small enough to make herself disappear, tears soaking into a pillow like she's still in whatever hell she came from.

Why?

Is it this place? The silence between these walls can get sharp enough to cut skin if you sit in it too long.

Or is it something older, something that followed her in and unpacked itself in the corners?

I still don't know what this House was before I pulled her out.

I've heard enough fragments to guess, and they're ugly.

But I don't have the full picture-what kind of men, what kind of rules, what it took to keep a place like that running. I only know it made girls like her.

And those girls... I've met broken before. I've bought it, used it, discarded it. But her? She doesn't fit clean into the mold. She's too obedient for her own good, but there's something under it-an echo that makes me think she could turn it all around and make someone regret underestimating her.

That was the point, at first. See how far I could push her.

Strip her down to nothing and see if I could make her crack.

Break her open just to watch what came spilling out.

But now... I'm not sure. If I push her the right way, she could be a weapon.

Not one I picked up ready-made, but one I forged myself.

Mary's watching me, like she's measuring whether I care at all or if I'm already halfway to throwing Lily away. I lean back against the couch, drag a hand over my face, and force the edge out of my voice.

"She'll be fine," I say. "I'm not going to hurt her."

Mary's mouth presses into a thin line. She's too polite to call me a liar, but she's not buying it wholesale either.

Mary eventually pushes herself up from the chair, her expression still wearing that mix of concern and calculation. "I'm heading out," she says, glancing between us. "Groceries. I'll get what's on Lily's list. And... a few things for you. Might help with the healing."

I grunt something that might pass for a goodbye, not bothering to look away from the television. The couch is comfortable enough for now, and I'm not about to make her feel like I'm suddenly grateful for her hovering.

The front door clicks shut, and the silence in the room shifts.

When I glance back, Lily's at the counter, quietly moving around plates and bowls. She's piling food onto one as if the task is sacred-deliberate, careful, nothing wasted. My gaze lingers longer than it should.

I've spent years wishing for power, building it, taking it in every way I could-money, fear, reputation. I own it in boardrooms, in back rooms, in the streets where names matter more than laws. But this-watching her, knowing every step she takes is because I allow it-this feels different.

It's not the same kind of control I've had over men who'd kill for me.

This isn't about fear or dominance for show.

It's quieter. It seeps in. She moves because I permit it, because I've shaped the space she exists in, because she's beginning to live by the rules I set without me having to speak them out loud.

And fuck if that doesn't make me want to see how much further I can take it.

°°°°°

Lily Malen

The skirt swished against the tops of my thighs as I moved, the faint rustle of fabric sounding far too loud in the empty corridor.

My fingers brushed the edge of the yellow sweater-soft, loose, like something meant for comfort rather than for show-and the bow in my hair tugged gently when I turned my head, the ribbon's tails brushing my shoulder.

I'd been tying them in ever since that day in the city with Adrian, when he'd said nothing about them but didn't tell me to take them out either.

Mary had noticed, and each time she returned from the store, there was another folded ribbon in the bag.

The boards beneath my feet were cool, the silence stretching between each step. I kept my pace slow, careful. His door wasn't far now.

Earlier, his voice had carried from the living room-gruff, edged with something brittle.

"Get the fuck off the couch," he'd muttered to himself, and I'd watched him push upright, every movement deliberate, his hand pressed hard against his side.

The muscles in his jaw had tightened with each breath, but he hadn't asked for help.

I hadn't offered. Not because I didn't want to-because I did-but because I wasn't sure if I was allowed.

Mary had gone up to him a while ago with his medication, saying it might make him sleep. But I couldn't stop wondering if he was still awake. If the pain was worse. If maybe he was...

I bit the inside of my cheek, the memory rising before I could stop it.

Last night.

The smell of iron, sharp and dizzying. His weight, far heavier than I'd imagined, pressing into my side as I tried to hold him up. My arm had ached from straining to keep him steady, my hands clumsy, useless against the strength of his body when he faltered.

And then-warmth under my palm. Too much of it. Not warmth-heat. Wet. My fingers had slipped in it before I realized it was blood.

He'd clamped his hand around mine then, hard enough that the bones in my wrist ached. His grip hadn't loosened, not even when I'd told him he was hurting me. My hand had gone numb, but I'd kept it there, pressed against him, because letting go felt like the worst thing I could do.

He'd said nothing as we stumbled toward the couch, just gritted his teeth against a groan. But the way his weight leaned into mine, the way his breath caught-

I'd been so afraid. Afraid that if I let him go for even a moment, he might not get back up.

Now, walking toward his door, that fear still clung to me, quieter but no less sharp. My knuckles brushed the wall as I passed, grounding myself. I was only going to check on him. Ask if he needed anything. Just to see him-awake, breathing, there-would be enough.

I stayed in the hallway for a moment, my hand hovering over the door. I didn't want to overstep, but I couldn't just walk in. My knuckles brushed the wood softly, and I knocked, careful, almost afraid of the sound. A low grunt came from the other side, rough and tired. I took it as permission.

The room swallowed me the moment I stepped inside.

Grey everywhere-walls, sheets, even the frames on the wall.

Cold. Sharp. Like it had been stripped of anything soft or forgiving.

This was him, completely. I couldn't help but take it all in, letting my gaze wander, tracing the lines and angles of the room that felt so unfamiliar and so completely his.

Then my eyes landed on him. He was stretched across the bed on his back, face pressed into the pillow, hair sticking up from wherever it had been pushed while he tried to rest. The sheets barely clung to him, tossed aside in a careless sort of way, and I felt my stomach twist at the sight.

He looked... small, somehow. Vulnerable in a way I didn't expect.

I moved closer, quietly, careful not to make a sound. My hands twisted together in front of me. "I... I came to see how you were," I said softly. "If you're... if you need anything."

He didn't turn to look at me. "No. I'm fucking fine," he said, voice rough, tired.

I bit my lip, unsure what to do next. I felt like I shouldn't be here, but I couldn't leave, not yet. "The... the medicine Mary gave you," I tried, my voice quieter, almost swallowed by the room.

"The shit Mary gave me's making me tired," he grumbled, rolling his head slightly against the pillow. "But I can't fucking fall asleep, and it's pissing me off."

I froze for a second, my stomach tightening.

I remembered last night-how I had barely been able to hold him as I guided him to the couch, how his blood had pressed into my palm, how he had gripped my hand so tightly it went numb.

I had been terrified. And now, here he was, still in pain, still tense, and I was standing in his room, unsure if I was helping or just making him more uncomfortable.

I hesitated a step from the bed, my legs brushing almost against the heavy wooden frame. It was massive-bigger than any bed I'd ever seen-and somehow even more intimidating up close. My heart thumped painfully against my ribs, and my hands twisted together as I swallowed.

"I... I mean," I started, my voice soft and hesitant. "If... if you'd like, I could... help you."

He shifted slightly, one eye cracking open, dark gaze meeting mine with that familiar questioning edge. My cheeks warmed immediately.

"I... my sister used to... she sometimes had trouble falling asleep," I mumbled, twisting my fingers nervously. "And I... I'd help her... relax. I could... I could try to do the same... if you wanted."

He stared at me for a long moment, the silence stretching. Then, finally, he said, "Sure. Why the fuck not." His voice was rough, low, just enough for me to feel the weight behind it.

A small, almost imperceptible smile brushed my lips. I bit the inside of my cheek, hesitant. "Can I... um... sit on the bed?" I asked carefully, voice barely above a whisper.

Another pause. I could practically feel him weighing the question, judging it. Finally, he muttered, "I don't fucking care."

My heart lurched, and I exhaled quietly, relieved.

Slowly, carefully, I moved around to the other side of the bed.

My hands hovered just above the covers for a second, before I gingerly crawled onto the mattress, settling to his left.

My movements were deliberate, careful not to touch him abruptly, aware of every inch of space between us.

I sank lightly onto the mattress, sitting there, hands folded neatly in my lap, taking in the quiet of the room, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, and the faint scent of him lingering on the sheets.

My voice comes out before I can swallow it back, small and uncertain. “C-can I… touch you?”

His eyes open at once, sharp and dark, even dulled by pain. For a long moment he doesn’t speak, and I want to take it back, to disappear into the floor. Then, with a sound that is more sigh than word, he gives the faintest nod.

My heart flutters, too loud in my chest.

I move carefully, my fingers trembling as I touch his shoulder. He’s warm beneath my hands, the muscles tense and unyielding. Slowly, carefully, I guide him until his head rests on my bare thigh. The weight of him is startling—heavy, grounding, intimate in a way that makes my chest ache.

His body stiffens at once, every line of him going hard and resistant. My breath catches. I went too far. He hates this. He never likes to be touched; I’ve seen it in the way he pulls back, the way his body always braces. I should move. I should—but I don’t.

Instead, I think of Alex. My little sister, not really, curling against me on nights when sleep wouldn’t come, her head heavy on my lap. I’d stroke her hair until her eyes closed, until her breathing evened, and it always worked.

I lift my hand slowly, hovering just above his temple before I finally let my fingers slip into his hair. Dark strands, softer than I expected. Softer than they look. I drag my fingers through them gently, petting, soothing, just like I used to with Alex.

His shoulders shift almost imperceptibly, loosening. His head tilts more fully against me, cheek pressing higher on my thigh. Heat rushes to my face so fast it almost burns.

I’ve had men touch me before. I never wanted them to, never asked for it, never had the chance to refuse. Their hands always felt like taking, like being stripped bare until nothing of me was left. But this… this isn’t like that.

This has my heart beating so fast it hurts. This has my cheeks warming until I can’t breathe. This feels like something I chose—something I gave.

My fingers move slowly, carefully, as though I might break something in him if I press too hard. I’m so focused on the feel of his hair sliding between my hands—the unexpected softness, the weight of his head against me—that I forget myself. Lost in thought, I tug a little too sharply at a strand.

The sound he makes is low, a rough groan that startles me straight through. It sends a shiver racing down my spine, but all I hear in it is pain. My heart leaps into my throat, and I snatch my hand away.

“I—I’m sorry,” I whisper, panic flaring. “I didn’t mean—”

Before I can finish, he shifts. His cheek presses harder against my thigh, as though anchoring himself there, his breath hot against my skin. His voice comes out rough, half gravel, half command.

“I didn’t tell you to stop.”

The words steal my breath. His right arm moves then, slow but certain, crossing over my legs and pulling himself closer, as if he belongs there, as if I’m something to hold on to.

I freeze, my pulse hammering, my skin blazing where he touches me. For a heartbeat I think I should pull away, remind him who I am—what I am—but the thought splinters before it can take shape.

Carefully, hesitantly, I let my fingers return to his hair.

I trace through the dark strands again, gentler this time, letting them slip between my hands.

He relaxes by degrees, the lines of his body melting into the bed, into me, as though the weight of the world has finally loosened its grip on him.

It must be the medicine, I tell myself firmly. That’s all this is. He doesn’t mean it. He wouldn’t want this, not from me, not if he were fully awake.

But when his arm tightens faintly around my legs and his head shifts closer, I can’t stop the warmth that spreads through me—or the quiet, trembling ache that wishes, for just this moment, it wasn’t only the medicine.

His breathing slows little by little, uneven at first, then steadier, heavier. The rough lines of his face soften as his lashes lower, his weight sinking further against me. I can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of my skirt, each shift of his cheek making me burn hotter.

I keep stroking his hair, careful, steady.

The strands catch the faint light, darker than ink, smoother than I imagined anything about him could be.

He doesn’t look like the kind of man who should ever know softness, not in touch, not in rest—but here he is, head in my lap, trusting me with something fragile even if he doesn’t realize it.

My chest tightens, an ache I don’t have words for. I shouldn’t be here, not like this. He’s a man who terrifies me, who speaks in commands and sharp edges, who reminds me too much of danger itself. And yet… in this moment, he feels almost human. Almost like someone who needs.

My fingers slow, tracing carefully through the strands as I watch his lips part on an exhale. His arm stays draped over my legs, heavy and unmoving, like he’s holding me there. Like he doesn’t want to let go.

The thought steals the breath from me. No one has ever held me to keep me close—only to keep me trapped.

This feels different, and it frightens me more than anything.

Because I want it. I want to believe there’s something safe in the weight of him pressing closer, in the steady rhythm of his breathing, in the way he hasn’t let me go.

But I remind myself—again, again—it’s only the medicine. That’s all it is. It dulls pain, makes men act softer than they are. This can’t mean anything.

Even so, I don’t stop. My hand keeps moving through his hair until the silence of the room deepens, until I’m not sure which of us is comforting the other anymore.

°°°°°

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Sadly things won't be sunshine and rainbows yet, but one day

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