Sunlight slips through the blinds, laying soft stripes across my bedroom wall and the rumpled sheet tangled around my legs.
And then there’s Shadow.
He’s sprawled on his back beside me, one arm thrown over his head like he went to sleep mid-thought. His hair is a mess in the best way, and his face is turned just enough that I can see the strong line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows that never fully goes away, even when he’s resting.
I watch him for a second too long.
It still feels unreal sometimes, waking up with him here. In my apartment, in my bed, like he belongs.
LikeIbelong.
A couple of weeks isn’t long. I know that. It’s barely enough time to learn someone’s coffee order without asking twice, and I still jokingly offer him tea. But the space Shadow’s carved out in my life feels bigger than the number of days should allow. Like something that was always meant to be there and just finally snapped into place.
In a way he was. Even though I didn’t know it was him who’d saved me.
We’re still keeping it quiet. We’re only just trying to figure out what it is we have, let alone involve my dad in anything. Notthat I think my dad would disapprove. I know he likes Shadow, he pretty much told me he’d always thought of him as a son, and finding out that he saved me from the fire cemented our lives together in ways we couldn’t deny. But there’s a world of difference between respecting a man and being happy about him dating your only daughter.
I know we have to tell them soon. I’ve seen the glances. We’ve been to the clubhouse together a couple of times. Shadow on his bike, me driving my car. I’m never on the back, because that would pretty much advertise the fact we’re together.
But no one hassaidanything, and neither have we.
It’s our little secret.
For now.
Shadow exhales, slow and steady, and his fingers twitch once against the pillow. Like he’s reaching for something in his sleep.
I think about the last time I saw him after his first session with Lockwood.
I wasn’t there with him, but I’d gone to see him at his house later that day. He looked like he was wearing a weight no one else could see. His shoulders were tight, and his gaze unfocused. Like he was still in some place far away, fighting something with his bare hands.
I’d wanted to ask. I’d wanted to touch his arm, make him look at me, make him tell me what was happening inside his head.
But I didn’t. If he wanted me to know then he’d tell me.
Instead, I’d waited.
And eventually, the fog had cleared. He’d blinked like he was coming back to himself, and the first thing he’d done was find me across the room and hold my gaze like a lifeline. LikeIwas the tether.
After that, little things started shifting.
Not dramatically. Not like a movie montage where someone wakes up healed and smiling.
But… subtle.
He still gets withdrawn. Still goes quiet. He still won’t give himself to me entirely. We make love, but he’s always wearing a t-shirt. I’ve given up telling him that his scars don’t bother me, because I realize it’s not me he’s seeking approval from, it’s himself. Once he’s come to terms with whatever that is, then maybe he’ll shed the final layer. Both literally and metaphorically. He still disappears inside himself sometimes, his eyes turning inward like he’s listening to something I can’t hear.
But when he comes back, it’s faster.
And the way he looks afterward—there’s something lighter in it. A fraction of softness that wasn’t there before.
Then there’s the piano.
The first time I heard it, I thought I was imagining it. I’d gone to visit him, as usual I’d parked my car further up the street so no one would see me, and I was walking towards his door when the faint sound of music drifted through the open windows.
It was hesitant, like someone was testing the keys, letting their hands remember the shape of melody. Rather than knockon the door, I’d sat outside on the porch for a few minutes and listened, not wanting to break the spell. In the end I knew I couldn’t sit there all evening, so I’d got up and knocked, but not before I’d peeked through the living room window and saw him sitting there. His shoulders were hunched, his head bowed, his hair falling forward as his fingers moved.
He looked free. But he also must have sensed something because at that moment he looked up and caught my eye. His expression was as if he’d been caught doing something too intimate.
