No makeup. No sparkle. No performance.
Just a woman who looks exhausted in a way sleep doesn’t fix.
My chest tightens so abruptly it almost knocks the air out of me.
I’m the guy assigned to the perimeter, not the one invited inside the walls. This feels like trespassing on something sacred.
I should leave.
I don’t.
Instead, I knock lightly on the doorframe. Not loud enough to startle her. Just enough to announce myself.
“Lila.”
She flinches hard, sucking in a breath as her hands drop away from her face. Her eyes are red. Wet. She swipes at them quickly, like that might undo what I’ve already seen.
“I’m sorry,” she says immediately, voice cracked. “I didn’t mean for you to—this is weird. I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.”
I stay where I am, hands loose at my sides, careful not to crowd her. “You don’t have to apologize,” I say. “It has been a long day.”
She lets out a shaky breath. “There were threats. And meetings. And now we’re married, which still feels like a sentence I borrowed from someone else’s life.” She laughs weakly. “This is not how I imagined my wedding day.”
Something sharp twists in my gut.
I keep my voice low, steady. “Yeah. Mine involved fewer NDAs.”
That earns me a fragile huff of laughter. It fades quickly, but it’s there.
She wipes her cheeks again and stares at her hands. “I hate that you saw that.”
“It's OK. You can trust me, Lila,” I say.
The words surprise me as soon as they’re out, but I don’t take them back.
She looks up at me then, really looks at me, and there’s so much emotion in her eyes it almost hurts to meet it.
“I don’t want to be scared all the time,” she says quietly. “Would you—” She stops, swallows. “Would you stay in my room tonight? On the couch. I just… I don’t want to be alone.”
“I know,” I say. And I do.
She searches my face, like she’s checking for cracks. For exaggeration. For something she can’t afford to believe.
“That's what I'm for,” I add.
Something in her expression shifts. Not relief. Not hope.
Trust’s quieter cousin.
She swallows and nods once.
I sit on the couch as she climbs into bed.
She turns onto her side, facing away from me. The bedside lamp clicks off, leaving the room washed in soft city light leaking through the curtains.
For a few seconds, neither of us moves.
Then her voice drifts back to me, quiet and careful. “Cam?”
