I don’t remember deciding to close my eyes.
Chapter Ten
DEREK
By the timethe bathroom door closes down the hall, the house feels different.
Not louder. Not quieter.
Occupied even though the guys just left.
I finish rinsing the last mug and set it in the dishwasher, moving on autopilot while my attention tracks the subtle sounds of her moving through the hallway. Bare feet. The faint brush of fabric. Careful steps, like she’s still negotiating with her balance.
I don’t follow.
I don’t hover.
I dry my hands and wipe the counter, giving her space because she deserves it—not because I’m unsure what to do.
The TV clicks on in the living room. Low volume. Something neutral. Smart choice.
When I step out of the kitchen, I pause just inside the doorway.
Audra is already asleep.
She’s curled into the corner of the sofa like it was built for her, knees tucked slightly, one arm folded beneath the blanket. The oversized shirt hangs loose on her frame, soft cotton against skin that still looks a shade paler than it should. Her breathing is even now,slow and deep, the kind that tells me her body has finally stopped fighting.
Good.
I cross the room quietly and grab a throw pillow from the chair, easing it behind her back so she doesn’t roll wrong. I pull the blanket higher, careful not to startle her.
She doesn’t move.
She trusts the space.
That lands heavier than it should.
I sit in the armchair opposite the couch—not close enough to crowd her, not far enough to miss anything. The TV murmurs quietly, the low cadence of a narrator talking about rivers or forests or something equally unimportant in this moment.
I watch her sleep.
Not in the way men are accused of watching women. Not possessive. Not entitled.
Protective.
Someone decided last night that her attention was something they could take. That her safety was negotiable. That kind of thinking doesn’t sit right with me. Never has.
I don’t need to replay it to feel the weight of it. I don’t need to imagine worse outcomes to justify what I did.
She needed help.
I was there.
That’s it.
The house settles around us—afternoon light slanting through the windows, dust particles floating lazily in the air. Outside, the yard is still and green, a bird drinking from the water the gardener replenishes daily, a few others eating the food in the feeder. The stone path leading nowhere in particular. No urgency. No pressure.
She looks different asleep.
