The shadows are furious now. I can feel them pressing in, alive and angry, protective in their own twisted way. They've watched me bleed and cry and break for two years, and they won't let this stranger touch what belongs to them. What belongs to him.
"Fuck," Oliver mutters, standing. "Where's your breaker box?"
"Garage."
"I'll check—"
"No." I stand too, tightening my robe with shaking hands. "Maybe that's enough for today."
He reaches for me in the dark, finds my hand, holds it like he has the right. "Alena, I'm not leaving you in the dark—"
"I'm fine. I'll handle it."
"Let me help—"
"Oliver." I pull my hand away, step back, put space between us that the darkness makes feel like miles. "It's late. You should go."
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.
The lights flicker back on.
His face is confused, hurt, the perfect features arranged in an expression of wounded dignity. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No. I'm just… tired."
"Is it because of—"
"Please." I walk to the door, open it, let the cold night air rush in. "I need to be alone."
He follows slowly, like a man walking to his execution. Stops at the threshold and looks at me with those green eyes that probably break hearts without trying.
"Will you at least call me?" he asks. "Let me know you're okay?"
"Sure." Another lie to add to the collection.
"Alena—"
"Goodnight, Oliver."
He stares at me for a long moment, searching my face for something I can't give him. Then nods, defeated in a way that makes me feel like the villain.
"Goodnight."
He walks to his car—that beautiful, expensive car that probably drives like a dream—and I watch him go. Watch him climb in. Watch the taillights disappear down my quiet suburban street.
I close the door. Lock it. Lean against it.
The house settles into silence. Then the whispers start—low, satisfied, the sound of something ancient and pleased with itself. The shadows in the corner recede, content now that the intruder is gone.
I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, robe falling open in ways I don't bother to fix.
The black rose sits on the coffee table. The wine. The evidence of a normal date with a normal man who wanted normal things.
And I cry.
Because I tried. I really, genuinely tried. But even his hands inside me couldn't make me feel anything except the absence of the ones I wanted.
Only ghosts and shadows and memories of a man who's been gone for two years. Only Drogo. Always Drogo.
