He pulls the blanket over both of us.
I should push him away, should force some barrier, some piece of myself that remains untouched.
But I'm so tired.
So confused.
So completely overwhelmed by everything that's happened.
By the running and the fear and the cold and being found and dragged back and this—whatever this is.
I let him hold me.
Let him stroke my hair with gentle fingers.
Let him whisper things I don't want to hear about how I'm safe, how I'm his, how everything is going to be okay, how I just need to stop fighting what we both know is inevitable.
Even though nothing is okay.
Even though everything has changed.
Even though I just gave him exactly what he wanted and proved I'm exactly as weak as he thinks I am.
"Sleep," he says softly.
"I can't sleep with you. Can't stay here."
"Yes, you can. And you will. Every night from now on. This is where you sleep now. In my bed. In my arms. Where I can keep you safe and warm and make sure you don't get any more ideas about running."
"I will run. First chance I get, I'll run again."
"No, you won't."
"You can't watch me every second."
"I don't need to. Because you're starting to understand something, whether you want to admit it or not."
"What?"
"That running hurts more than surrendering. That fighting what you want only makes it worse. That your body has already chosen, even if your mind is still catching up."
The words hit too close to something I don't want to acknowledge.
Because he's right.
Running got me fleeting freedom and a lifetime of knowing I can't escape.
Can't get away from him, can't get away from what he makes me feel, can't get away from my own traitorous body.
Surrendering got me pleasure and warmth and safety and the slow, creeping realization that maybe I don't want to escape anymore.
Maybe I never did.
Maybe I just wanted him to prove I couldn't.
Wanted him to catch me.
Wanted him to show me that resistance is futile so I could stop fighting and just give in.
