Her breath warms my chest.
Her hair smells like rain and soap.
Her heartbeat gradually steadies against my ribs.
Then, so quietly I almost miss it, her muscles loosen. Her shoulders drop. Her fingers unclench.
She falls asleep.
Just like that—like her body finally decided it can stop fighting for a while.
I freeze for a second, not wanting to jostle her. She’s draped half across my torso now, cheek pressed to the space over my heart, legs tucked under the blanket. The oversized shirt she threw on slips off one shoulder, revealing a patch of bare skin marked faintly from where I held her earlier.
And I’m hit with a pulse of emotion so sharp it almost knocks the air out of me.
Christ… she’s beautiful.
Not the stage version.
Not the glossy magazine persona.
Just her.
Raw.
Soft.
Exhausted.
Real.
My throat tightens.
I study her face—lashes smudged with dried tears, lips parted slightly as she breathes, a faint furrow still between her brows like she’s waiting to be startled awake.
What the hell did they do to her?
How many years did she go without someone holding her like this? Without someone staying?
I adjust the blanket, tucking it gently around her shoulders. She shifts, just a little, and her hand ends up on my stomach, fingers curling into the fabric of my hoodie like she’s anchoring herself to me even in sleep.
Something in my chest aches.
I should move.
Turn out the lights.
Take her to bed where she’ll be more comfortable.
But I don’t.
If I lift her now, she’ll wake. And she needs this sleep like she needs air.
So I stay exactly where I am—back sinking into the couch, arm wrapped around her, hand splayed over her upper arm. Keeping her close. Keeping watch.
It hits me then—quiet, undeniable.
I’m in trouble.
