I press my palm against the glass to ground myself. The cold seeps into my skin, and I close my eyes, trying to slow my heartbeat.
Behind me, the mattress creaks softly as she shifts again.
I turn.
She's pushed the sheet down and flung one arm across the empty space where I had been, leaving her skin exposed. The curve of her hip catches the light, serving as a reminder of what I have but can't keep.
I cross back to the bed and pull the sheet up, tucking it around her without touching her more than necessary. My fingers brush her wrist by accident, and her hand curls immediately, catching mine.
My pulse kicks in, and I hold my breath.
Her eyes stay closed, but her grip tightens, pulling my hand toward her chest. She exhales, a sound that's almost a sigh, and presses her cheek into the mattress like she's settling around me again.
"I'm here," I whisper, so quiet it barely exists. And the words aren't a promise. They're a fact, limited and fragile, true only in this moment.
Her fingers relax, and I sink into the chair, keeping my hand in hers.
Minutes bleed into the edges of morning. The light outside shifts from black to deep blue. My body stays alert, coiled, waiting for repercussions to storm into the bedroom while scenarios play out about how her father would choose to kill me.
Her thumb moves against my knuckle, in a small, unconscious stroke. The contact pulls my attention back to her and the steady rise and fall of her breath.
When the first line of sunlight slips through the window, I straighten. Dawn is here whether I'm ready or not. Questions will follow. Consequences will add up fast.
Morning light fully enters the room, stripping the night of its protection, spilling across the floor, and climbing the walls until there's nowhere left to hide what we did or what's coming.
She stirs when the light hits her face, her lashes fluttering once before her brow tightens. Her hand drags across the mattress, slow and searching, until it meets nothing. She pushes herself up on one elbow, hair tangled, the sheets twisted around her waist, eyes already scanning the room. Her voice comes out rough with sleep, "Why are you over there?"
"I needed space," I reply.
She sits up fully, leaving the sheet around her waist, peering closer. Hurt fills her expression. "You needed to get away from me?"
"No. I needed to get away from our situation."
"What do you mean?"
I sigh, kiss the back of her hand, and state, "We both know if your father finds out about us, I'll end up dead."
She shakes her head. "I won't let that happen."
I grunt. "It's not something you can stop."
Defiance lights up her expression. She firmly asserts, "Watch me."
"Blue—"
"No. I'm sick of your excuses, Red. First, it was your job. Now, it's my father."
"They aren't excuses."
"Aren't they?"
"No. They're reality."
Her eyes turn to slits. "I'm not delusional."
I stay quiet.
Anger flares across her expression. She spouts, "So that's what you think is going on here? I'm delusional?"
