His skin is warm and tanned, lightly freckled, smooth except for the scars only someone like him would call “nothing.” His hair — short, ark, always disciplined — is a total mess right now, sticking up in directions he’d pretend don’t exist. And that stubble… dark, rough, sinful. The kind that scrapes in the best possible way. The kind that makes a man look like he’s been through hell and came out hotter.
His mouth is parted, soft, the opposite of the controlled, clipped lines he uses when he’s awake. He’d die before admitting he sleeps like this — vulnerable, undone, almost beautiful.
For a second, I let myself look. Really look.
At the man I somehow ended up wrapped in.
And then the fear starts to seep back in.
I slide backward carefully, inch by inch, trying not to disturb him. His arm tightens around me on instinct, a low warning rumble in his throat, and then—
He snaps awake.
Eyes sharp. Body tense. Like I’ve tripped an alarm inside him.
“Hey,” I whisper immediately, turning in his arms. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. I just… need to call Banks.”
His shoulders drop. The tension melts, replaced with exhaustion so thick it practically drips off him. “Mm.” He presses his forehead to my shoulder, letting out a breath. “Right. Banks.”
It’s the middle of the morning, and he still looks wrecked — not from last night but from everything. The days of watching me, guarding me, barely sleeping, holding himself together with discipline and duct tape.
I kiss his head. Just once. Because if I do it twice, that’s a confession.
He’s already falling back asleep as I ease out of the bed, mumbling something that sounds like “don’t disappear.” My chest does a weird fluttering thing, like a bird trapped under my ribs.
I pad into the hallway. The alarm panel glows on the wall — the one he installed yesterday after checking every lock three times. He showed me the passcode, slow and deliberate, as if he were handing me a key to something sacred.
I type it in. The system chirps, then quiets.
Downstairs, the kitchen is painfully still. Morning sunlight spills across the floor in wide golden strokes. It should look peaceful, but with all the reinforced locks and new motion sensors, it feels like a home prison.
My lake house jail.
The one he built because he’s terrified something will happen to me. And he’s probably right.
I make coffee, mostly so I have something to do with my trembling hands. The smell helps. Kinda. Not enough.
I lean on the counter and stare out at the lake — sun glittering on the surface, a soft breeze making ripples. It’s stupidly beautiful. One of those mornings you see in postcards and assume are fake.
I should want to go outside. Feel the air on my skin. Sit on the dock like a normal human.
But every time I picture the trees, the open space, the path leading back to the road… all I can think of is him.
Michael Sheifer. Out there somewhere.
Watching.
Waiting.
My breath catches, just a tiny hitch, but enough for me to notice. I rub my wrists. Pace once. Twice.
Then stop, because pacing makes me feel trapped.
The irony is hilarious in a deeply unfunny way.
Outside: danger.
Inside: safe but suffocating.
