My throat tightens. The air between us fragile, like a broken pane of glass, shards sparkle in the night, edges threatening to draw blood from one another, but we accept it. We accept one another.
I nod, too full of feeling to speak, and he pulls me into him. His chest is warm beneath my cheek, his heartbeat steady under my palm. The blanket shifts as his arm wraps around me, strong and sure, as if he can shield me from everything that came before and everything that waits beyond these walls.
“Sleep, Dove,” he murmurs against my hair. “You’re safe now.”
The words melt through me like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. My eyes flutter closed, the weight of the day dissolving as I breathe him in
Before sleep claims me, I whisper the truth into the space between us. “You have already given me the world, Trey. You just don’t see it.”
The days blur after that night—quiet hours stitched together with too many thoughts and not enough sleep. By the time I look up from the haze, three weeks have passed since the intruders.
The police showed me pictures, asked if I recognized any of them. I didn’t. Their faces meant nothing to me—just more shadows trying to take away the light I’ve finally found. We never heard who they were there for, if they were burglars, fans, or something nefarious.
The house is active with quiet routine—Trey’s house staff is something else. Beatrice, the head of the house, is a motherly matron in her late forties. Margarite, the housekeeper, has come by a couple of times. And then there’s the chef—Trey calls him Steak—tattoos almost rivaling Trey’s own. He comes in on request, whips up a storm for a day or two, and leaves us with perfectly sealed Tupperware portions. They’re funny, kind, and Trey moves around them like he’s completely at ease.
Trey’s laughter echoes somewhere down the hall, the soft strum of a guitar seeping beneath doors, the scent of coffee and oil paint. Everything feels natural with him. Easy. Like we’ve been doing this forever.
It kind of scares me a little.
Because I know what this is now.
I know I’m in love with him.
But love—real love—means giving that last piece of myself away, the part that’s still locked away, behind fear and shame. The part that remembers what it costs to trust.
I sit in the corner of his studio, legs folded beneath me, sketchbook on my lap. Trey is across the room, lost in his own rhythm—his fingers moving over the strings like he was born knowing how to make them sing. His voice is quiet, rough around the edges, carrying through the space in a way that makes my heart ache.
When it’s just us, he’s docile.
No cameras. No chaos. No eyes on him but mine.
He glances up between chords, a lazy smile tugging at his lips—the kind that tells me he knows I’m watching him, and that he doesn’t mind.
That look alone is enough to melt something deep inside me.
“Come here,” he murmurs, setting the guitar aside. His voice carries low, the kind of quiet that vibrates more than it sounds. I move on impulse, setting my art supplies to the side and moving before I realize.
I cross the room, barefoot on the wood floor, the faint echo of each step drowned by heady anticipation. He reaches out whenI’m close enough, his fingers sliding over my wrist, then higher, until his palm finds the curve of my neck.
“You always watch me like that,” he says, thumb brushing over my jaw. “Like you’re seeing something no one else can.”
“I do.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “What do you see, Dove?”
I swallow, unsure how to explain it. The way his edges fade when he’s here, stripped of fame and expectation. The way his heart sounds when I’m close enough to hear it.
“Peace, skill, beauty.” I whisper. “I see how content you are.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then he pulls me in until my forehead rests against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek. His hands find my waist, gentle but certain, holding me there.
“It’s hard not to be content with you at hand, Dove.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss into my hair.
I close my eyes, breathing him in—his cologne, the faint trace of smoke and cedar.
I could stay like this forever.
His thumb drags in lazy circles at the small of my back, and I swear I feel the world shrink to the space between us.
