I feel small and safe, which is a kind of pain all its own.
He touches my jaw, tilts my face up. “You ready to get out of that dress?” he asks.
The fabric is wet and stiff with sweat, the zipper biting into my back, the sequins scraping my ribs. I nod.
He stands, then lifts me to my feet like I weigh nothing. His finger runs down my spine, slow, until it catches on the zipper. He tugs, gentle. The sound is loud in the room, every tooth giving way.
When the dress comes loose, he peels it off my shoulders, slow and careful. He lets it fall to the floor, pooling around my ankles.
I’m in nothing but my underwear and the cold hits me all over again.
He runs his hands down my arms, rubbing the skin until the goosebumps fade. “You want to wear my shirt?” he asks. “Issy stocked the closet with some things.”
I don’t trust my voice, so I just shake my head. I want to stand here, raw and ruined, and know that I can survive it.
He doesn’t move. He just waits.
I turn, face him, and let him see me, in all my vulnerability. He looks at every bruise, every mark with a look of adoration in his eyes.
He kneels, brings his mouth to my wrist, and kisses the bruise there, soft and slow. He does the same to my shoulder, my hip, every place that hurts.
He is so gentle it makes me want to scream.
He stands, and I look at him. He’s taller than anyone I know, bigger, but he makes himself small, makes himself safe for me. He holds back the demons so that he can soothe mine.
I wrap my arms around his waist, bury my face in his chest, and breathe in the smell of him—soap and sweat and something darker, more masculine.
He rubs my back, up and down, over and over, until I feel the pieces of myself falling back into place.
He whispers in my ear, “You’re going to be okay. I promise.”
Holding my hand, he takes me back down the hall. Walking me to the bed, pulling back the covers, he helps me lie down. He sits beside me, one hand on my hair, the other stroking my arm.
I don’t close my eyes. I stare at the ceiling, at the cracks and the paint, at the big ass spider weaving a web in the corner. I watch it for a long time, its legs moving with a purpose I can’t understand.
He stays until my eyes start to close.
And then I’m out.
When I wake, he is still there, sitting on the floor by the bed, head resting on the mattress. His eyes are closed, but I know he’s not really sleeping.
He opens them when he feels me move. He looks at me and smiles, just a little, just enough.
“Morning,” he says.
It’s not morning, not really. The clock says three a.m. The world is still black outside the window.
I sit up, pulling the blanket around me.
He is watching me, but not the way men usually do. He is reverent, in awe.
I reach for his hand, and he gives it to me. His skin is warm, the calluses rough against my palm.
We sit like that, holding hands in the dark, until I remember how to breathe.
He doesn’t ask me to talk, but I do anyway.
“I’m sorry I broke,” I say.
