He nodded, understanding. “Okay. Write. I’m cooking. You need to eat.”
And so it went.
I sat in the office, the French glass doors cracked open to the living room where he shed his suit, tie, and shirt like armour. He cooked in silence, moving around the kitchen like a guardian angel with a mission. He brought food without comment, refilled tea I didn’t notice was empty.
Sometimes he’d sit behind me on the desk chair, pulling me back against his bare chest while I typed. His arms loose around my waist, chin on my shoulder, breathing steady against my neck.
“Keep going,” he’d murmur when my fingers slowed. “I’ve got you.”
I’d lean into him, stealing his warmth like it could chase the cold whispers away. His heartbeat against my spine was the only rhythm that made sense when everything else was chaos.
The ghost hated it—I could feel its frustration in the air, the cold receding just slightly when Drogo held me.
I wrote with the ghost breathing down my neck, but because of him I ate. Because of him I breathed.
There were moments—brief, stolen—when I collapsed onto the sofa for a nap.
Drogo sat beside me, reading fairy tales from his phone in a voice that changed for each character—dramatic and silly, warm and soothing.
The Three Little Pigs, Snow White, the tales I hadn’t heard in years.
His fingers found my hair without asking—slow, gentle strokes from scalp to ends, like he was smoothing out the nightmares one strand at a time.
I didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. His touch was the only thing that felt real when everything else was slipping.
My cheek pressed warmer against his thigh. I felt the muscle shift under my skin when he laughed at something in the story. His free hand rested on my arm—thumb tracing absent circles over my sleeve.
Innocent. Always innocent.
But my heart kicked anyway.
I closed my eyes, resting my head on his leg, feeling peace for the first time in days.
I woke with my head resting on Drogo’s legs. The afternoon light hit the curves of his skin, the dark ink wrapping around his muscles like stories. Shirtless from the waist up, bare chest rising slow, ink shifting with every breath.
I could feel the heat of him through my hair, steady and alive in a way nothing else was. Relaxed but every inch still carrying that quiet strength he never tried to show off.
He was watching TV, half-focused, eyes flicking between the screen and me.
I blinked slowly, feeling the warmth of his skin through my hair. He caught my movement and smirked, that familiar, easy grin that made everything a little lighter.
“Finally decided to join the living?” His voice was low, casual.
I shrugged, trying not to sound as tired as I felt. “Your bedtime stories worked better than I expected.”
Drogo laughed, a soft, genuine sound. “Figured they might.”
There was a pause, comfortable and easy. I glanced up at the ink on his arms, then his eyes.
“You excited about tonight?”
His jaw tightened—just slightly. “Yeah. Can’t wait to see you own that stage.”
But his fingers lingered longer on my cheek, thumb brushing my lip for half a second too long. I felt it everywhere.
He didn’t answer right away. Then, with that same calm certainty, he said, “No. But I might get nervous if you trip on stage.”
I rolled my eyes, but I smiled. “I’m not gonna trip.”
