Haden… I taste his name on my tongue, liking how it feels.
I hold my breath when my arse touches the chair, because the pain spreads from that point to every single part of me, and I grip Haden’s arm a bit too hard, but he doesn’t complain and he doesn’t move away until I let go.
He moves away, probably to finish making breakfast, and I discreetly sniff the air to inhale the amazing smell permeating the room, making my stomach growl, and embarrassing me when Haden looks my way. I glance away, focused on my watering mouth, and I’m caught off guard when he places a plate full of every good thing in front of me.
I want to recall this smell in my mind when being here is a distant memory, or when it transforms into a dream. I’m so distracted that when he sits in front of me, I jump. My side screams and I do the same, and I take quick breaths waiting for the pain to subside, while I place a gentle hand on it.
“Eat,” he says, concentrating on his breakfast.
I kinda like his brusque tone. It makes me feel cared for, and is so refreshing compared to those slimy words whispered against my face by those men groping my arse to get me outside. Or those grunts falling off their lips when they’re taking their own pleasure.
Haden’s not tender in any way. He’s grumpy, brusque, and keeps people at arm’s length. But even so he’s taking care of me, a stranger, and that’s more than others have ever done for me.
I hope he doesn’t ask me anything. I don’t want to talk about it, because I want to pretend, at least until breakfast is done or when I’m forced to leave, that my life has changed. I want to take these feelings—safety, nurture, and care—with me when I go back to my life outside this place.
Intruding thoughts bring that life forward, and I pass a hand over my face as if to push them away. I make sure not to touch the damaged side.
How am I going to work like this?
How is Dick going to react when there’s no money to collect? I shiver at the vision of his hands on me, because all they bring is torment.
“Stop thinking and eat.” He points to the plate in front of me when I glance at him. “You need it. And thinking on an empty stomach doesn’t help.”
He’s focused on his plate, sure I’ll follow his order, and I do. I pick up my fork but I can’t look away from his face, because somehow it’s softer than before.
I let his silent and strong presence lull me into a false sense of security, and use my fork to cut a piece of pancake and bring it to my lips. I groan when it melts inside my mouth, but my aching throat stops me from stuffing my face, and consequently being sick from eating too quickly. Every thought disappears, swallowed by the food making my taste buds sing and my tummy blissfully overjoyed. But the more I eat, the worse the pain becomes, until each forkful is a chore and not a pleasure.
Haden leaves his chair, and I hear a door opening and closing. I grab the glass of water in front of me, to try and sedate the fire inside my throat. A drawer opens, some cutlery sounds, and then a cup of ice cream appears in front of me. I fight the tears trying to fall. How could I have thought he wasn’t caring? I glance up, just to find his hand offering me a teaspoon.
“Thank you,” I say, before taking it from his hand. My voice comes out all croaky, and I blush, ashamed that he knows where I’m hurting and why, ashamed he saw everything, and ashamed he had to save me.
He doesn’t talk, but instead goes back to his spot and resumes eating, and for a while that’s the only sound around us.
I look at the pancake on my plate with longing, but I eat my ice cream. My throat doesn’t hurt as much as before, so I devour it. When I’m done, I gently try to lean against the back of the chair,but my ribs protest, so I return to my original position with another long hiss.
Haden leaves the table, taking the plate away with him. There are some opening and closing sounds, and after a minute he’s back and some more water appears in front of me. It’s so damn nice to have someone taking care of me. I wish this was my real life, instead of a fleeting dream.
“Thank you.”
He takes my hand in his, and again his touch awakes all my cells.
Does he want to comfort me?
His hold makes everything better, and I never want him to let go. But after caressing the back with his thumb, he turns it around and places a couple of pills in my palm.
Haden let go.
Losing his warmth is like losing a limb.
He moves away, and begins to clean the table.
I ignore the pills and try to stand up, but he stops what he’s doing and looks at me as if I’ve committed murder.
“Let me help.” I want to give something back and thank him for what he’s doing. Saying thank you doesn’t seem enough.
“Stay.” One word. That’s all he says, and nothing more.
I obey, grateful I don’t have to fend for myself… and admire him while he moves around in the kitchen. Sometimes he’s awkward, as if he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, and other times he’s quick and confident.
