I left him there, lights low, the soft hum of the old fridge the only sound. I went to the bedroom, but I didn’t sleep. I listened for every shift on the couch, every breath. Halfway through the night, I got up and checked on him.
He was curled up, mouth open, breathing steady. In the moonlight, the bruises were only shadows, the hard lines of his face softened to something almost sweet.
I stood there, watching, and let myself imagine what it would be like if I never had to let him go again. Tomorrow, he’d be gone. Tomorrow, he’d start running again, or the Valley would come calling and I’d have to take him home to Knox and the rest.
But tonight, he was mine to keep safe.
And for the first time in a long while, that was enough.
He woke at dawn, or maybe he never really slept. The sky outside the windows had gone gray, the light thin and sharp as a razor. Bo padded across the room, still in my flannel and sweats, the cuffs flapping past his wrists and ankles.
He stopped in the kitchen, blinked twice at the coffee already waiting for him, and then shot me a look that hovered between suspicion and awe. “Did you even sleep?”
I shook my head, watching the way his hair stuck up at odd angles. “Did you?”
He shrugged, then made a face when it pulled at the bruise under his eye. “Dreamed I got hit by a truck.”
“Not far off.”
He poured himself a cup, careful to keep both hands on the mug. The silence between us wasn’t awkward, just a low, constant thrum—like the world wanted to see which of us would break first. I let him drink, watched the way his shoulders unknotted with every swallow.
He set the cup down and glanced toward the bedroom door. “You serious about the bed? ‘Cause I can just crash on the couch again.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You think you’re gonna break it?”
He opened his mouth, some smartass retort on the tip of his tongue, then shut it. “Never slept in a bed that nice before.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I jerked my head toward the bedroom and said, “Get in. Doctor’s orders.”
He tried to protest, but the sound died as soon as I gave him the look—the one that said don’t push me, not when I’m trying to help. He shuffled down the hall, muttering under his breath, then sat on the edge of the mattress, running his hand over the old patchwork quilt.
I followed, stopping in the doorway. The morning light lit up the room, washing out all the old scars on the walls, making it feel cleaner, safer.
Bo looked up at me, blinking slow. “You gonna stand there and watch?”
“Until you get under the covers, yeah.”
He snorted, but pulled the blanket back and slid in, wincing at the way his ribs protested. The flannel bunched up around his shoulders, making him look younger, almost untouched.
I moved closer, tugged the quilt up over his chest. My fingers brushed his cheek, feather-light, but I let them linger a second longer than necessary. The skin was hot, the bruise soft under my touch. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in.
I let my hand fall to his shoulder, squeezed once. “Sleep. You need it.”
He blinked, then nodded, eyelids already fighting to stay open. He mumbled something that might have been “Thanks,” but it faded into a sigh as the drugs and the exhaustion finally won.
I stood there, watching the way his chest rose and fell, the steady cadence of his breathing. He’d fight it, I knew, try to wake up every hour just to make sure I hadn’t left him alone. But for now, he was still, anchored by the weight of the blanket and the smell of clean sheets.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, just out of arm’s reach, and let myself look at him. The raw edge of his jaw, the curve of his lashes, the way the borrowed shirt rode up to show a strip of bare skin at his hip. I wanted to touch it, to press my thumb to the spot and leave a mark that would last longer than the bruises.
I didn’t. Not yet.
Instead, I waited until I was sure he was gone, deep into whatever dreamless dark his brain could muster. Then I stood, tucked the blanket tighter around him, and turned off the light.
Before I left the room, I leaned in and let my voice go soft, lower than a whisper. “You’re safe,” I said, words for him and maybe a little for myself.
He didn’t answer, but I knew he heard.
I stood there longer than I should’ve, staring at him. The sound of his breath filled the room, slow and even, the only proof that anything in this world ever healed right.
