It took almost an hour. Maybe longer. But eventually, my eyes closed. I didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment I was staring at the ceiling, and the next—darkness.
Then, a voice. Loud. Too loud.
“You don’t get to tell me I’m done!”
Hayes’s voice echoed in my skull like it was bouncing off the walls. I tried to respond, tried to say something calming, but nothing came out. My throat closed. My legs wouldn’t move. The chair slammed back against the desk. The photo frame shattered again and again and again.
I couldn’t reach the panic button. I couldn’t speak. He moved toward me, and I couldn’t back up.
He raised his arm, and I thought—this was it. This was how it ended. Alone, helpless, humiliated. I curled inward and tried to make myself small. I begged him to stop, to take a breath, but he refused. Hayes threw my desk to the side and grabbed my neck, his eyes bulging out of his head. “You don’t tell me I’m done! Do you hear?” Then he squeezed, and I screamed.
“Sloane,” a voice came again—soft and gravelly, like it hadn’t fully woken up either. “Sloane, hey. You’re okay. It’s me.”
A warm palm brushed across my temple, careful and slow. A thumb swept lightly over my cheekbone, and that was what pulled me from the nightmare. Not the sound. Not the words. That touch.
I gasped as I jolted upright, heart hammering, sweat clinging to every inch of my skin. My chest rose in short, shallow bursts. I blinked hard against the light—someone had turned on the lamp beside the bed.
Oliver sat on the edge of the mattress, shirt rumpled, hair mussed from sleep, his eyes wide and bleary but focused entirely on me. “You’re safe,” he said again, quieter this time. “You’re home. I’m here.”
I couldn’t speak yet. My lungs weren’t cooperating. My fingers gripped the edge of the blanket until they hurt. I scanned the corners of the room like I expected Hayes to be there, like I hadn’t left the office hours ago.
My voice came out raw. “It felt real.”
“I know,” he said, not rushing me. His hand stayed on my face, the pad of his thumb brushing beneath my eye. “You were yelling. Thrashing a little. I didn’t want to startle you, but I couldn’t leave you like that.”
“God.” I shook, the adrenaline coursing through me with pain. “He grabbed my throat—choked me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t breathe.”
“Hey, hey, breathe with me now.” He placed a hand on my chest, right over my heart as he inhaled slowly. “In for a few beats, then out. Do it with me, honey.”
My chest warmed at the use of honey—it wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but this time caused a flurry of butterflies deep in my gut.
I focused on his deep voice, the way his hand pressed onto me, and his calming, comforting presence. I followed his directions for a minute, and only then did my pulse settle. His expression was confident, yet worried, and I focused on the slight flecks of yellow in his eyes. They were so pretty, and I could totally get lost in them.Okay, was I drunk? I wasn’t thinking right.
“There you go, good girl. Keep breathing with me.” He smiled, moving his other hand to cup my cheek and move to stroke my hair. “You’re such a strong, brave, perfect woman, Sloane. You can do this.”
My eyes fluttered as my pulse raced for an entirely different reason. He was so close to me. Oliver sat in my bed, stroking my hair, touching my chest. My skin was already clammy, and my throat dried up. “I-I—” I started to speak, but no wordscame out. What could I even say here? I had no idea what was happening with my body.
His face softened as he removed his hand from my chest, his gaze sweeping from my forehead to my neck, then my chest. “Can I stay with you in here? Please?”
I nodded, desperate and grateful for him to ask so I didn’t have to beg. I didn’t care if this was wrong. I wanted his comfort, his presence, damn the consequences.
Oliver didn’t wait. He peeled back the edge of the blanket and slid in beside me, careful not to crowd but close enough that I felt the dip of the mattress shift with his weight. His chest stayed a few inches from mine, his arm propped under his head as he looked at me. I didn’t know where to put my hands. I didn’t know how to settle with him right there, watching me like I mattered.
“C’mere,” he whispered, and I did.
I turned toward him, the blanket pulling between us as I curled against his chest. His arm came around me, firm but gentle, palm settling low on my back. His hand moved in slow strokes, smoothing down the line of my spine, like he was trying to rub the tension out of every locked muscle. I didn’t realize I was crying again until he pressed a kiss to the side of my head and whispered, “You’re safe.”
The weight of his hand on my back. The warmth of his breath near my ear. The press of his legs tangled gently with mine. It all worked in a way that nothing else had—no breathing exercise, no technique. Just him. Just Oliver.
I shifted slightly, one of my knees sliding between his. His hand drifted up, past my ribs, grazing the bandage before settling beneath my arm. I could feel every inch of him—his chest, his hips, the way his thigh pressed between mine. My body relaxed, even as my heart climbed into my throat.
“Still okay?” he murmured, voice soft against my temple.
“Yes,” I whispered, and I meant it.
He shifted closer behind me, every movement slow and deliberate like he didn’t want to startle me again. One arm slid beneath my neck, and the other wrapped over my waist and tugged me back against his chest. The blanket shifted with us, but I didn’t care about the chill—he was warm and firm and everywhere as we spooned.
His hand spread across my stomach, splayed wide and steady. The pads of his fingers moved gently, tracing along the hem of my tank, not pushing. I felt every breath he took against my back, the way his chest expanded, the steady rhythm of him settling me more than any coping strategy I’d ever practiced.
