His To Keep

Eighteen Just Think.

When I wake, it's slow-like surfacing through heavy water. My body feels stiff, my limbs sunk deep into the mattress as if I've been pinned there for hours, maybe longer. Every muscle aches from being still too long, my joints protesting the small movements I try to make.

The room is dim. The curtains are drawn tight, keeping out the light, and for a moment I don't know what time it is, whether the world outside has moved on without me. My eyes blink against the shadows, shapes shifting until they settle into the familiar outline of my room.

Then it rushes back. Yesterday. The collapse, the floor rushing up to meet me, the voices-Adrian's, sharper than the rest. My chest tightens, panic rising like something with claws.

My gaze falls to my arm. A thin needle pierces the inside of it, taped down, a clear tube snaking up to a bag that sways slightly where it hangs from a tall metal stand beside the bed. The liquid inside glimmers faintly, dripping into me drop by drop.

My breath catches. My heart lurches hard against my ribs. What is this? What did they do to me?

The air feels suddenly too thick, too heavy, pressing down on me. My fingers twitch against the sheets, restless, desperate to claw the thing out, to run.

My eyes drag across the room in frantic search, half expecting the shadows to shift and swallow me whole. And then they land on him.

Adrian.

For a moment, I don't believe it. My breath catches in my throat, a sharp ache spreading in my chest as though my heart doesn't know whether to race or stop altogether.

He's here-actually here. After a week of silence, of empty rooms and unanswered questions, of wondering if he had simply disappeared back into whatever dark world he came from. .. he's sitting at my side.

He doesn't look like the man I remember last-standing tall and untouchable, voice edged with steel.

Instead, he's folded awkwardly into the chair, his head resting heavily against his arm on the mattress, his shoulders slack with exhaustion.

His other hand is stretched across the bed, fingers resting so close to mine that they barely graze the back of my hand, as though he had reached for me but never quite dared to finish the gesture.

I stare at him, hardly daring to blink, afraid the vision will shatter if I move too suddenly. He's real. Not a dream. Not another memory bleeding through my mind. The room feels smaller with him in it, heavier, charged in a way that makes my skin prickle.

I hadn't realized how much I noticed his absence until now-until the sharp contrast of seeing him again makes something unsteady shift inside me.

Why is he here? Why would he come back?

The longer I look at him, the harder it is to fight the ache that wells up inside me.

I missed him. God, I missed him so much it hurts to admit it, even in my own head.

The silence of his absence had been unbearable, the empty spaces he left behind too loud, too heavy.

Now, with him so close I could reach out and touch his hair, a strange calm seeps through me.

Like the world doesn't matter as long as he's here.

Like maybe I could finally breathe again.

But the thought is dangerous, and it turns sour as soon as I let it settle.

Because he isn't here for me. Not really.

I'm not someone he could ever care for. I know that. I've always known that. He keeps me because I'm useful, because I'm something he can shape into a weapon or a distraction or whatever he wants. I'm a piece in his game, nothing more. Just like the House. Just like every man who came before him.

My chest tightens, the fragile comfort unraveling. No one has ever cared about me-not for me, not for who I am beneath what they made me. Not my father, not the men who owned me, not Adrian. Why would he?

I stare at him, at the line of his shoulders bowed in sleep, at the way his hand almost brushes mine. And it hurts. Because I can almost believe in the warmth he brings with him, but I know better.

No one ever stays. No one ever chooses me.

It's only when I glance down that I notice something's different.

The fabric against my skin is soft, unfamiliar.

An oversized black shirt drapes over me, slipping off one shoulder until I tug it back in place.

The hem brushes low against my thighs, hiding a pair of shorts I recognize from my own closet-someone must have chosen them for me while I was unconscious.

A heat spreads through me, part shame, part unease.

Someone undressed me, dressed me, and I hadn't even known.

The thought tightens in my chest, and I try to shift, to push myself upright, to reclaim some control.

But the movement tugs at something in my arm.

The IV twists, pulling against the vein, and a sharp, uncomfortable sting jolts through me.

My head pounds harder, the dull ache flaring into something sharper, and a small whimper breaks from me before I can bite it back.

Adrians head had been tilted against his hand, but now it lifts, his eyes flashing open. For a moment, disorientation clouds them, then sharp focus as they rake over me in a swift, assessing sweep.

Something flickers across his expression-quick, unguarded-before his eyes widen. His voice cuts through the silence, rough, still thick from sleep but sharp enough to pin me in place.

"Don't move," he says, gruff and certain, as though it's an order as much as a warning. "You'll hurt yourself."

The words are soft in my throat, barely more than a breath. "O-okay." It's all I can manage, my voice uncertain, because I don't know what else to say with Adrian's dark eyes fixed so sharply on me.

But before I can think of anything else, the door creaks open.

A head of dark blond hair pokes through, and then Logan's face comes into view.

His eyes land on me, and they widen. The gasp that escapes him is almost comical, but there's nothing funny about the way he shoves the door open and strides in.

"You're awake," he blurts, his voice quick, tumbling over itself.

"Shit, Lily, are you okay? Does it hurt?

Are you in pain? You-fuck, do you have any idea how dangerous that was?

Starving yourself like that? You could have-" His words spiral, one crashing into the next, his tone sharper with each breath.

"Reckless, you could have done real damage. You have to eat. You can't just-"

His voice becomes a blur of scolding, and my throat tightens.

My eyes sting before I can stop them. He's mad.

He's disappointed. Just like everyone else always is.

My chest knots with shame as his words batter against me.

I blink fast, but the tears slip anyway, hot and humiliating. He must hate me.

"Logan," Adrian's voice cuts across the air like a whip, low and furious. "Shut the fuck up."

I flinch, startled by the rawness in his tone, and for a moment both men freeze. Logan turns his head toward Adrian slowly, like he can't believe what he just heard. His jaw tenses, and then he lets out a harsh laugh, bitter as it spills into the room.

"Oh, now you give a fuck?" His words are sharp enough to slice.

Logan's gaze flicks back to me for the briefest second, softening, and he crouches slightly so he's more level with me.

"I'm sorry, Lily. I didn't mean that for you.

You didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart.

" His voice is warmer then, almost protective, but when he straightens and looks back at Adrian, it hardens again, venom in every syllable.

"You don't get to play the hero now," he snaps. "You've treated her like a fucking pawn from the start. Like she's just another piece in your game. Do you even know how to treat someone like a human being? Or are you so far gone in your goddamn head you can't see what's right in front of you?"

I sit frozen on the bed, pulse hammering, their anger sparking like flint on stone. My hands twist in the blanket, nerves pulling at me until it feels like I can't breathe. I don't want them fighting. I don't want to be the reason for this.

Adrian's chair scrapes faintly against the floor as he leans forward, his presence filling the room in a way that makes the air heavy.

His voice is gravel, biting. "You think you've got it figured out, huh?

You don't know shit. Don't stand there and lecture me like you understand a fucking thing about this. "

Their voices clash, sharp and heated, and I shrink against the pillows, my heart thrumming painfully.

I swallowed against the dryness in my throat, the ache in my arm still pulsing where the needle sat beneath my skin.

Their voices were sharp, cutting across the room like blades, and all I wanted was for it to stop-before it could turn into something worse.

My chest tightened, and before I could think better of it, I whispered, "It's okay.

Adrian didn't do anything wrong... it was my fault. "

The words felt small, almost childlike, but they spilled out because I couldn't stand the way they looked at each other, anger simmering, rising.

Fighting never meant anything good-back at the House, anger only ever led to pain, to things I couldn't escape.

My heart thudded faster, the air in the room seeming to thin.

But Logan snapped his gaze to me, his voice sharp and shaking.

"No. Don't do that. Don't you dare." His hand flexed against the doorframe like he needed to hold himself back.

"Adrian did everything wrong. He's the one who's insane, not you.

He's a fucking asshole who thinks he can treat people however he wants. "

I flinched at his words, even though they weren't aimed at me. My eyes darted to Adrian, but he wasn't looking at me anymore-he was staring at Logan with that hard, dangerous look that made the air colder. Then he pushed to his feet, his chair scraping back with a violent sound that made me jerk.

"Careful," Adrian growled, his voice low, coiled like something ready to strike. "You'd do well to remember who the fuck I am. I'm your boss. You don't get to talk to me like that."

Logan let out a bitter laugh, one that didn't sound like humor at all.

He shoved a hand through his hair, shaking his head like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Oh, right. Boss." His eyes flashed. "I forgot that's all I am to you.

Not the best friend you've had since you were twelve, not the one who's been by your side when no one else was. Just an employee."

The word dripped with venom.

"Fuck you, Adrian." Logan's voice cracked on it, raw, furious. He didn't wait for a reply. He turned, his shoulders tense, and stormed out, the slam of the door making me jump so hard it rattled in my bones.

I stayed very still, staring at the sheets pulled over my lap, tears blurring my vision. The silence he left behind felt worse than the yelling. My fingers trembled against the blanket, gripping it tightly as though that might anchor me.

Because arguments never ended well. They never did.

Adrian dragged a hand through his hair, fingers curling tight into the strands like he was trying to rip the fury out of himself.

His jaw was set, hard enough that the muscle ticked beneath his skin, and for a moment he didn't look at me at all-just stared past me, at nothing, like he needed somewhere else to put the anger burning through him.

The room felt smaller with it, the weight of his silence pressing down on me until I couldn't hold it in. My voice slipped out, barely more than a whisper. "S-sorry."

His head snapped toward me so fast my chest clenched, dread tightening around my lungs. For an instant, I thought I had made it worse-that I had pushed him over some invisible edge. My pulse skittered, weak and frantic.

"You don't have anything to be fucking sorry for," he ground out, voice sharp and low, like gravel dragged across metal.

I flinched, swallowing hard. My fingers knotted into the blanket, twisting it against my legs. "I-I do," I stammered, the words spilling before I could stop them. "I made Logan angry, and you angry too. I didn't mean to-I didn't..."

"Stop." His voice cracked like a whip, and the force of it stole the breath from my throat. His eyes were burning into me now, hot and merciless, but there was something underneath too, something jagged. "You didn't fucking do anything."

I froze, my chest heaving, afraid if I said another word I'd tip him back into fury.

Adrian shook his head once, a sharp, bitter movement. "I shouldn't have told you not to come out," he muttered, words rough, uneven with the weight of them. "I was angry. I didn't think you'd take it so literally."

My lips parted, but nothing came out. The admission hung in the air between us, heavy, strange. His anger hadn't vanished-it clung to him, coiled tight under his skin-but the edge of it was no longer aimed at me.

My fingers twisted into the blanket, the fabric soft but suddenly suffocating against my palms. The silence stretched after his words, heavy and jagged, until I couldn't stand it anymore. My voice slipped out, small and trembling.

"I just... I just wanted to do what you told me. That's what I'm supposed to do."

His head jerked, like the words struck him wrong. A dark sound tore from his throat, closer to a growl than anything human. He leaned forward, his hands digging through his hair, the muscles in his jaw sharp with tension.

"That's not what a normal human being fucking does," he spat, his voice low and raw, the anger bleeding through every syllable. "They don't behave like you. They don't starve themselves like that. They don't-fuck-they don't obey like you do."

My chest pulled tight. His words tangled in my mind, sharp and confusing.

I didn't know what he meant. Wasn't that what I was supposed to do?

Hadn't that been the only way to keep safe, to keep breathing?

My throat burned, my eyes stung, and I shook my head faintly, as if I could make sense of it if I just tried harder.

"I-I'm sorry," I whispered, the word splintering as it left me.

But before I could draw in another breath, he cut me off-his voice harsher, louder.

"See? No one apologizes like that. No one is really that sorry."

The air between us crackled. His words sank into me, heavy and impossible to understand. My heart pounded painfully, because I didn't know what else to say, didn't know how to fix it if even being sorry wasn't enough.

"I don't know what you want me to do, Adrian," I whisper, my voice thin and trembling, "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

The words slip out before I can stop them, too bare, too raw.

My chest aches as I force myself to meet his eyes.

"All I want is to do what you say. That's what I'm meant for.

To listen. To be... perfect. That's who I am.

That's how we are." The last part comes out softer, almost pleading, as if I need him to understand, as if the truth of my life should somehow make sense to him.

Adrian stares at me, silent but sharp, and for a moment I can't breathe. Then he drags a hand over his face and lowers himself heavily back into the chair, the movement sharp with frustration. His voice comes out like gravel, rough and unsteady with barely-contained anger.

"Yeah, I fucking see that," he snaps, his words slicing the air between us.

His eyes are hard, restless, flicking over me like he's trying to pick me apart piece by piece.

"I see it every time you open your mouth, every time you move like you're waiting for permission to breathe.

I don't fucking understand you, Lily. The way you behave, the way you think, the way you.

.." He cuts himself off, his jaw locking as he glares at the floor.

"It's not-none of it's normal. And I can't wrap my head around it. "

I sit there, heat burning my cheeks, confusion pooling deep in my stomach. His anger feels dangerous, but so does the way he looks at me, like I'm a puzzle that won't fit together no matter how hard he tries.

"Then tell me," I whisper, my voice breaking as I lean forward, hands clasped tightly in my lap.

"Please, Adrian... just tell me what to do.

I need to understand." The plea feels like it's dragging itself out of my chest, torn from somewhere I can't control.

My whole body aches with the weight of it, with the fear of failing him, of not being enough.

His eyes cut to me, sharp and unyielding, and for a long, brutal second I think he won't answer at all. Then his voice drops low, rough, laced with anger he isn't bothering to hide.

"I don't want you to do what I tell you," he bites out. "I want you to do what you fucking want. Think what you want. Speak when you want to. Ask questions if you've got them. Stop looking at me like I'm supposed to hand you a script."

My breath stutters, the words hitting me in a way I don't know how to process. My throat tightens. "I've never done that before," I admit, barely more than a whisper. "I've never been allowed to."

Adrian leans back in his chair, his jaw tense, his eyes dark with something I can't name. His voice lashes out, harsh and final.

"That's part of the fucking problem."

The silence that follows feels heavier than any command I've ever been given.

I sit there with his words circling in my chest, heavy and unfamiliar, and I think maybe this is what he means-choosing for myself. My voice shakes as I test it, small and trembling.

"Then... the first thing I want to ask is... are you angry with me?"

The question hangs in the air, fragile and dangerous. For a moment, he just stares at me, his jaw tight, his chest rising with the weight of his breath. Then he exhales hard through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite.

"A little," he says flatly.

The sound of it makes me freeze, my stomach hollowing out. The word cuts straight through me. My mouth opens, the apology already pushing to the surface, but before I can speak, his voice cuts sharp across the space between us.

"No. No more fucking apologizing."

The command slams me still. My lips press shut, my eyes drop to my lap, to the nervous knot of my fingers twisting together. Shame burns through me, but I manage to whisper, "Okay."

The silence stretches until I think maybe that's all he'll give me, but then his voice shifts-lower, rougher, edged with something that sounds almost like defeat.

"I'm angry because you're in my head," he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. "Because you're all I fucking think about."

I blink, the words twisting strangely in my chest. That isn't what I expected-not anger at something I'd done wrong, not punishment waiting to fall. Slowly, I force my gaze up, my eyes catching his.

"You're... angry at that?" I ask, confused, the words barely steady.

His stare meets mine, dark and unflinching, and something coils tight in the air between us.

I tilt my head at him, confusion pressing tight in my chest. "Did I... did I do something wrong for you to think about me so much?" My voice slips out softer than I intend, edged with worry. "I can fix it, if I did."

His jaw tightens, but he shakes his head. "No. That's not it. Everything you do-I think about it. Every damn thing."

The words strike me still, but before I can piece them together, he gestures sharply to the room around us.

"You never should've been here. Not in this house.

Not filling it with things that don't belong.

I built this place to be cold, dead. Not full of warmth.

Not..." His eyes flash toward the blooms in the corner. "Flowers."

I flinch, the warmth draining from me in an instant. "I thought... I thought you said it was alright," I whisper. My throat tightens as I push up from the bed. "I'll throw them out. I shouldn't have-"

My fingers are already finding the tubing at my arm, nimble from years of practice, from helping the other girls when no one else would. It's easy-twist, pull, hide the sting. I can do it before he even notices.

But his hand snaps around my wrist, firm, unyielding. "Stay put." His voice is sharp, commanding, enough to root me in place. His grip softens only slightly, but he doesn't let go.

I glance up, startled, my heart pounding hard enough to hurt.

"The flowers stay," he says finally, his voice rough.

I blink up at him, stunned by the weight of his words. He doesn't let go of my wrist, doesn't look away, and I feel caught in something I can't name. His grip is firm, like he's afraid I'll vanish if he loosens it.

"The flowers stay," he says again, rough, final.

The words confuse me, twist inside me until they ache. "But... I thought you hated them," I whisper. "You said they don't belong here."

His mouth is a hard line, his silence pressing down on me.

For a moment, I almost wish he would snap, that he would shove them out himself, because at least then I'd understand.

But instead he just stands there, holding me in place, looking at me like I've somehow broken through a wall he meant to keep standing.

My throat tightens. "I've never..." I stop, biting down hard on the words before they can sound foolish. But they press out anyway, too heavy to keep locked inside. "I've never been allowed flowers before."

His hand goes still on my wrist, though he doesn't release me.

My gaze drops to the floor, to the shadows curling along the edge of the bed.

"Not once. Not for birthdays, or anything.

They weren't for us." My voice falters, softer than a breath.

"I thought maybe, if it was alright, I could keep them this time. "

The silence stretches, thick and heavy. My chest burns with the need to take the words back, to tell him I'll throw them out right now, that I won't ask for anything again. I start to pull my arm, but his grip tightens, holding me fast.

The silence holds until I can't stand it anymore. My pulse hammers against his grip, my skin hot where his hand keeps me trapped. And then-suddenly-he lets go.

For a moment I think he's going to leave, that he'll walk out without another word, but instead his head drops forward, pressing against the edge of the mattress. His shoulders are tense, drawn tight like a bowstring, and his arms rise until his hands hook at the back of his neck.

I watch in uneasy stillness as his fingers curl into the hair at his nape, tugging hard, like he's trying to drag something out of himself. The sound that leaves him isn't quite a word, isn't loud, but it scrapes at the air like frustration made real.

I don't move. I don't dare. The flowers sit in the corner, bright and soft and out of place, and I can't tell if they've ruined everything or saved me for another day.

I stand frozen for a long moment, staring at the way his fingers knot into his hair, pulling hard enough that I almost flinch just watching. My chest feels tight, my throat dry, but I remind myself of his words-do what you want, say anything, think anything.

So I breathe, slow and careful, and I make myself believe I'm allowed.

With all the gentleness I can manage, I reach forward and close my hands over his wrists. His skin is hot beneath my palms. For a heartbeat, I expect him to shove me away, but when he doesn't, I pry his hands loose from his hair, one at a time, and guide them down to rest against the bedspread.

My heart is racing so hard it makes my fingers tremble, but I don't stop. I remember that night-just over a week ago-when he let me touch him, when my hand in his hair had undone something tightly coiled in him. I remember the way his body gave in, the way his anger had gone quiet for a breath.

I do the same now. My fingers slip into the dark strands at the crown of his head, slow and tentative, stroking through until the hair slides soft against my skin.

And just like before, his shoulders loosen. The rigid line of his back eases beneath the weight of my touch, as if some invisible chain slackens and lets him breathe again.

I keep going, soft and steady, as though I can coax the storm inside him into silence, if only for a moment.

“No one touches me, Lily. No one.” His voice was low, hard, but not angry. Just… solid. Unmovable. I froze, my palm still resting lightly against him, unsure if I should pull away, but somehow I couldn’t.

Then he paused. The silence stretched, and I held my breath, caught in the weight of it, until he spoke again. “No one, but you.”

My chest fluttered, heat rising to my cheeks, and I felt a small, helpless thrill. The only one. He was letting me be the only one. I couldn’t stop the words from slipping out.

“Adrian… will you… be my friend?”

The room went still. Too still. His shoulders stiffened, the curve of his back tightening like he was bracing against something invisible.

Slowly, he lifted his head, dark eyes studying me with that sharp, unreadable intensity.

My hand fell from his hair, settling beside me, light as a feather, unsure.

“I don’t have friends, Lily.” His voice was hard, steady, unyielding.

I swallowed, feeling the words tremble on my lips, but I whispered them anyway. “Neither do I.”

The space between us felt charged, quiet but full. My heart thudded, echoing in my chest, and I realized I wasn’t afraid—not really. Not of him. Not here, not now.

°°°°°

Here's another one done!

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