“Viktor—”
“Shh. I’ve got you.”
I carry her down the short hallway, into her bedroom. It smells like lavender and something distinctly her. I lay her on the bed and pull the covers up around her shoulders.
She looks small like this.
Soft.
Sleepy.
Completely surrendered.
I brush a piece of hair from her face, meaning to leave—because I should leave, because it would be smarter, safer, less complicated—but she reaches out and grabs my hand, her delicate fingers curling around mine. Her eyes are filled with a quiet plea.
“Stay,” she whispers.
It’s just one word.
A simple, yet dangerous request.
I should say no.
I should walk out, lock down whatever I’ve let slip tonight, and rebuild the walls I’ve carefully maintained for years.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
Her relief is immediate, like a breath she didn’t know she was holding. I strip down to my boxers, folding my clothes over the chair by her dresser. When I climb into bed beside her, she moves into me without hesitation, curling against my chest.
I pull her in, hold her close, feel the warmth of her breath against my throat. Within minutes, her breathing deepens. She falls asleep just like that, trusting me enough to drift off in my arms.
Trusting me.
I stare at the ceiling in the dark, one hand stroking slowly down her spine. I should feel guilty. Or conflicted. Or cautious.
Instead…I feel calm.
Dangerously calm.
I think about what I’ve done.
I crossed a line.
I let myself get pulled in.
I let her see me.
All of me.
No mask.
I should be thinking about the consequences. I should be worried.
But I’m not.
Because for the first time since I was a child—before my mother died, before the world hardened into something sharp and unforgiving—I feel safe.
Not because the world is safe—it never will be for a man like me—but because she is.
