Drained him in a way I haven't seen before.
I don't ask questions, but I don’t think I need to.
Some things are better left in the dark.
All I know is that the man who attacked me has been "handled."
That's enough.
That's everything.
Carefully, I lift my head.
Look at him.
The early morning light filters through the curtains, casting soft shadows across his face.
He looks younger when he sleeps.
The tension is gone from his jaw.
The worry smoothed from his brow.
The hard edges softened into something almost boyish.
Just Gunnar.
My Gunnar.
The man who went to war for me.
I trace a finger along his cheekbone.
Light, barely touching.
He doesn't stir, doesn't even twitch.
He’s out cold.
I slip out of bed as carefully as I can, holding my breath as I ease my weight off the mattress.
My ribs ache with the movement, but it's manageable now.
A dull ache instead of the sharp, stabbing pain, but maybe that’s the pain meds.
Progress.
I'm healing.
Slowly, but I'm healing.
In the bathroom, I avoid the mirror.
I know what I look like.
The bruises fading from purple to sickly yellow-green.
The swelling is getting better, but not completely.
