As I watch her fall asleep, I make myself a silent promise: whatever it takes, I will keep her safe. Not because she’s mine, but because I am hers.
***
A week later, I watch as evening settles over the city, deepening the shadows in my office and blurring the skyline to a smear of gold and bruised blue.
Eden curls up in the armchair across from my desk, her knees drawn to her chest, loose hair shining in the lamplight.She’s been quiet all night, reading, occasionally glancing up at me with something gentle in her eyes.
I’m pretending to focus on paperwork, but really, I’m just memorizing the sight of her—soft, peaceful, so utterly out of place in my world that it almost feels like a dream.
When the silence grows too heavy to ignore, she marks her page and sets the book aside. She watches me for a moment, lips parted as if searching for the right words.
Finally, she asks, very quietly, “What made you the way you are?”
I go very still. No one asks me that. No one dares.
My first instinct is to deflect, to mock, to turn the question back on her. But she just sits there, patient, eyes wide and clear, not demanding, not judging. I could lie—God knows I’ve built an empire on half-truths—but the softness in her gaze pulls something loose in my chest.
She deserves more than another wall.
I lean back, staring at the ceiling, letting the memories come in fragments. “I was born into this. My father… he was a monster. The kind that smiles for the camera and breaks your nose when the door is shut. My mother left before I was old enough to remember her, and I was raised by men who believed fear is respect and violence is love. The first time I held a gun, I was nine. The first time I used it… I was twelve.”
Eden doesn’t flinch. Her face doesn’t twist with pity or horror, just listening—real, undivided attention.
“My brother and I learned early to trust nobody, not even each other. There were betrayals, some small, some that nearly killed us. You get used to the idea that nothing good lasts. You get hard, or you die.”
My voice comes out flat, colder than I intended. I want to stop, to shove the pieces of myself back into the box where I’ve kept them locked for years. But she waits, quietly, letting me fill the silence however I need.
I give her a few more pieces—the childhood beatings, the uncle who taught me to lie, the years spent earning trust I’d never give back. I don’t tell her everything. Some things are too dark to say out loud. But I give her enough.
When I finally look back at her, I expect to see fear, maybe even disgust. Instead, she crosses the small distance between us, her movements slow and sure. Her hand finds mine, fingers warm and gentle. She squeezes, just once, as if to anchor me here with her.
The contact jolts me in ways I can’t explain. My whole life has been spent waiting for blows, for sharp words, for threats disguised as affection. I don’t know what to do with kindness when it comes without an agenda.
Before I can pull away, she climbs into my lap, folding herself against me with the quiet certainty of someone who knows she belongs there. My arms come around her automatically, ready for the surge of desire that always follows.
Tonight, it’s not hunger that fills me. It’s something softer. Safer. Her head rests on my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck. The world falls silent except for the steady, in-and-out rhythm of our breathing.
We stay that way for a long time, neither of us speaking. The tension between us dissolves, replaced by a warmth so unfamiliar it’s almost frightening. I stroke her back in slow, aimless circles, feeling her heartbeat echo against my own.
She doesn’t ask for more. She doesn’t try to fix me. She just stays, solid and real, as if her presence alone can quiet the ghosts I’ve never escaped.
I don’t know how to hold tenderness without crushing it. I’ve spent too many years learning to survive by being sharper, harder, crueler than everyone else.
Somehow, with Eden, I manage. I keep my hands gentle, my grip steady, afraid if I let myself feel too much, I’ll ruin the one good thing I have.
She shifts slightly, her hand sliding beneath my shirt, palm flat over my heart. The touch is light, tentative, but it steadies me more than any threat ever could. I close my eyes, breathing her in, letting her anchor me to a world that isn’t all blood and betrayal.
For a fleeting, dangerous moment, I let myself imagine a future that isn’t built on violence and fear.
I see Eden walking through these rooms freely, her laughter filling the halls. I see her choosing to sleep beside me because she wants to, not because she has to. I see her carrying our child, trusting me with her body, her secrets, her love. I see her choosing me every day, without fear.
The image is so vivid it hurts. I want it. God, I want it so badly it makes my hands shake. It’s more terrifying than any enemy, more overwhelming than any threat.
If I let myself hope for something this soft, this good, I might never survive losing it.
I press my lips to her hair, breathing her in, letting the dream linger for a moment longer. Her arms tighten around me, as if she knows what I’m thinking.
“I’m here,” she whispers. Just two words, but they hit with the force of a promise.
