"You are exhausted," I say quietly.
"I'm fine." She reaches for the hem of her sweater, her fingers gripping the wool. "I'm not tired."
I catch her hands before she can pull the fabric over her head.
"Audrey." I apply just enough pressure to stop her movement. "Look at me."
She drops the hem of the sweater, her eyes meeting mine. The defensive edge is creeping back into her posture, a reflex she relies on whenever she feels exposed.
"I am not going to sleep with you tonight," I tell her, my voice dropping to a low, absolute register.
She blinks, a flash of confusion crossing her face. "You just carried me into your bedroom."
"I carried you into my bedroom because I want you in my bed." I release her hands and step back, putting a crucial six inches of space between us. If I stay any closer, my self-control will fracture completely. "But you have survived on two hours of sleep, cheap gin, and adrenaline for the last forty-eight hours. Your nervous system is redlining. If I take this any further right now, you will wake up tomorrow morning and wonder if you made a mistake."
Her jaw tightens. "I don't make mistakes."
"I know." I look at the dark circles under her eyes, the pale exhaustion she is trying so hard to mask. "And I refuse to be the first one."
I walk around the edge of the bed, pulling the heavy duvet back. I don't look at her, giving her the physical space to process the boundary I just set.
It takes an immense amount of discipline. The violent, territorial instinct inside me wants to strip the sweater off her, pin her to the mattress, and ensure she never thinks about Simon Vance or the rest of the world ever again.
But I want her deliberate surrender. Not a frantic reaction to the chaos of the day.
"Get in the bed, Audrey," I say, my tone leaving no room for negotiation.
I hear the soft rustle of denim. She kicks her boots off, leaving them on the rug, and climbs into the center of the massive mattress. She pulls the duvet up to her chest, watching me as I walk to the opposite side.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, turning off the small lamp on the nightstand. The room plunges into near-total darkness.
I lie down next to her. I don't pull her into my chest immediately. I wait.
For a long minute, the only sound is the quiet hum of the climate control system. Then, the mattress shifts.
Audrey closes the distance between us. She slides across the high-thread-count sheets, pressing her back against my chest. I exhale a slow, controlled breath, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her flush against me. She tucks her cold feet against my calves, letting out a long, shuddering sigh as the tension finally bleeds out of her muscles.
My hand rests flat against her stomach, directly over the thick wool of her sweater. I can feel the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart slowing down.
"Malcolm?" she whispers into the dark.
"I'm here."
"I don't think you're a mistake," she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep.
My throat tightens. The words hit me with the force of a physical blow. I press my face into the messy knot of her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo.
"Go to sleep, Audrey," I tell her.
She doesn't argue. Less than five minutes later, her breathing evens out, the exhaustion finally dragging her under.
I stay awake for another two hours, staring at the dark shadows on the ceiling, my arm locked securely around the woman who just dismantled my entire existence.
**
The light in the bedroom is gray and muted when I wake up.
I don't open my eyes immediately. I register the unfamiliar weight pressing against my side. Audrey is still asleep. Sometime during the night, she turned around. Her face is buried in the crook of my neck, her arm thrown carelessly across my chest. Her left hand rests right over my heart, the vintage diamond cold against my skin.
