But gradually, I sensed something was wrong—his breathing was becoming more labored, not from passion, but something else entirely.
I pushed him away and saw his pale face, trembling hands, and cold sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes were vacant, as if seeing some terrifying vision invisible to me.
"Alexander?" I called his name softly, but he seemed not to hear, his breathing becoming increasingly difficult.
I panicked but forced myself to stay calm. I gently touched his face, using the softest voice to call his name. "Alexander, look at me. I'm here. You're safe."
I gripped his shaking hands, repeating soothing words over and over. This was the first time I'd witnessed him in such a vulnerable state, and my heart ached as if it were being torn apart.
After a long while, Alexander gradually calmed down, his eyes refocusing on me. He looked exhausted, nothing like the powerful man he usually was.
"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely.
I kissed his forehead gently, holding him tight. "Don't apologize. If you're willing, you can choose whether to tell me what happened. I'm here for you."
He remained silent for a long time, his hands still trembling slightly. I held them firmly, giving him time and courage.
"When I was seven," he finally began, his voice barelyaudible, "my father took me to his office. It was a weekend, the office was quiet. I was playing in his study while he handled some documents."
I held my breath, knowing what followed would be devastating.
"Then rival gang members broke in," his voice began to shake. "They held guns on my father, demanding he hand over certain items. My father told me to hide under the desk and stay silent."
My heart clenched tightly, imagining a seven-year-old boy hiding under a desk, witnessing such horror.
"I saw everything," he continued, his eyes becoming hollow. "They tortured my father, trying to force information from him. Then..."
He stopped, his breathing becoming rapid.
"Then what?" I asked gently, stroking the back of his hand.
"They killed him. Right in front of me." His voice was almost a whisper. "My mother returned from shopping then, heard the gunshots and ran in. She saw my father lying in a pool of blood, screamed and rushed to him. Then they killed her too."
Tears began flowing for that little boy who lost his parents, and for this man now tortured by painful memories.
"I watched from under the desk," his voice trembled, "watched my parents die, watched the blood slowly flow toward my feet. I didn't dare move, didn't dare make a sound, just cowered there trembling."
"My God, Alexander..." I whispered, my heart breaking.
"After they left, I stayed there for hours, afraid to come out. Until my father's assistant found me." He looked at me, eyes full of pain. "Ever since then, those images have haunted my mind. Whenever I feel fear or anger, they return."
I held him tightly, feeling his body shake: "I'm so sorry. I had no idea you went through all that."
"Today, when I saw you surrounded," he said in my arms, "all those memories came flooding back. That sense of helplessness, that rage, that fear of losing someone important... just like back then."
I understood now. I understood why he so desperately wanted to protect me, why he couldn't bear to see me in danger.
"I'm afraid of losing you, just like I lost my parents back then," he held me tightly. "I can't go through that pain again."
"You won't lose me," I kissed his forehead gently. "I'm here, I'm safe."
"But today you nearly..." his voice broke.
"But I didn't," I said firmly. "You saved me, just like you've always protected me."
I stroked his face: "Thank you for telling me this. I understand now—your protection isn't control, it's love. Because you don't want to lose someone important again."
He nodded, pain still in his eyes but also relief: "I've never told anyone this before."
