Because the truth is, I’ve always wanted a family. Not the picture-perfect kind from magazines, but something simple. Solid. A home where no one raised their voice in anger. A kitchen that smelled like cinnamon instead of week old meatloaf. A life that didn’t feel like walking barefoot over broken glass.
I never told Matthew that. He would’ve used it against me. He would’ve turned it into a threat, or a leash, or a weapon.
But when Adrik says it, when he talks about babies and futures and me belonging here, the most basic human part of me that he awoke, stirs to life.
I swallow, my throat a little tighter than before. “I used to think about it,” I admit, eyes fixed on the sheets because lookingat him might break the courage forming inside me. “Having a family. Kids. A home that didn’t feel temporary. A life where I wasn’t constantly bracing for… everything.” I exhale shakily. “But I thought that dream died the first time Matt hurt me. And then again. And again.”
His thumb strokes over my knuckles, slow and warm.
“It didn’t die,” he says. “It waited.”
I close my eyes for a second because the tenderness in his voice hits too hard. When I open them again, he’s still watching me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
“Adrik… it’s crazy,” I whisper. “All of this. You. Me. Tonight. The way I feel. The way you talk about the future like it’s already written. I don’t know what’s trauma bonding, or adrenaline, or actual fate.”
He shifts just enough to bring our foreheads together, the intimate weight of it grounding me.
“I don’t care what you call it,” he says quietly. “I know what I felt. And I know what I want.” His breath brushes my lips. “And I want all of it with you.”
The air thickens again, that familiar pull tightening low in my belly. There’s no mistaking the sexual tension simmering between us. It hums beneath every word, every breath, every inch of space between our mouths. But he doesn’t kiss me. He lets the wanting sit there, heavy and hot, until I feel drunk on it.
“And what doyouwant, kotyonok?” he asks, voice softer than sin. “What future do you see when you close your eyes?”
My heart stutters. Because I know the answer. I’ve known it since he walked back into the suite at four a.m. in that pale grey suit, eyes blazing like I was the only thing he ever wanted to look at again.
“I picture… safety,” I whisper. “Stability. A home. Someone who actually wants the same things I do. Someone who… who adores me.”
His jaw clenches. His hand cups the back of my neck gently, a contrast that shouldn’t make sense but does.
“Then you’re looking at him,” he says.
The words settle over me like warm water. I let myself sink into his chest, breathing him in, letting the truth of it settle. A future with him isn’t a fantasy. It doesn’t feel like wishful thinking.
It feels possible and real.
After a long moment, he shifts slightly beneath me.
“Jasmine,” he murmurs, voice low and measured, “your money is in the living room.” A beat of silence. “Do you still want to leave?”
The question hangs in the air like a held breath. Quiet but impossibly loud.
Do you still want to leave?
The words settle in my chest like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through everything I thought I understood about my life. My breath catches, and for a long moment I can’t answer. I just stare at the ceiling above us and listen to his heartbeat under my cheek, steady and unhurried, as if he’s giving me all the time in the world.
I think about what “leaving” really means. Taking the money. Buying a bus ticket. Starting over again, alone. Another cheap motel or borrowed couch or halfway house. Loneliness.
I think about the cold, the fear, the bruises I still feel when I breathe too deeply. My life before tonight wasn’t living. It was surviving.
And then I think about the alternative. Abouthere.Abouthim.
About the way he touched me like I mattered. About how he looked at me as though he couldn’t believe fate had put me in his path. About how his voice went quiet when he told me he wanted a future with me.
I lift my head slowly, searching his face. His expression doesn’t push or plead. He’s just watching me, the way he always does, as if I’m something fragile and dangerous all at once, something he refuses to mishandle.
“I don’t know,” I whisper honestly. “I’m trying to figure it out. For so long all I’ve done is survive. Choosing anything else feels… huge. Terrifying. Like I’m rewriting my whole life in one night.”
His fingers trace the back of my arm, slow, steady strokes that make warmth spread through my chest.
