A hand, warm and gentle, brushes my cheek.
“I know,” he says softly, like he understands what I’m trying to say even though I can’t form the words.“You can tell me later.”
Later.That feels like something I might actually have.
Tears sting my eyes, and I realize that deep down, I was worried I would die in that old house or be trapped there forever.
The world shifts again as I’m lowered onto something soft.Cushions dip beneath my weight.A couch,I realize.Someone tucks a blanket around me, the soft fabric warming me instantly.
Light spills through my lashes—a warm glow, not the harshness of motel lamps or the flicker of headlights through dirty windows.This is steady, calm, and real.
I blink, straining to keep my eyes open with all the drugs in my system.
A man steps into my line of sight.
He seems nice.He has calm eyes.Gentle hands.He smells faintly of antiseptic and coffee.A stethoscope hangs around his neck, and I relax.
He’s a doctor.
He presses fingers to my wrist, then my neck, checking my pulse.A flashlight shines briefly into my eyes.
“She’s still pretty drugged,” he says, voice professional but kind.“But her vitals are good.No signs of internal injury.”
I try to focus on the man hovering nearby, the one who carried me, who hasn’t moved more than a few feet away since setting me down.He stands tense, coiled, like a guard dog refusing to leave his post.
He’s… handsome.
That’s the first clear thought I’ve had in what feels like forever.
Dark hair.Scruff along his jaw.Broad shoulders that stretch the fabric of his shirt.His eyes, God, his eyes, are locked on me like I’m the only thing in the room.
Like I matter.
The doctor draws up a syringe, and I tense at the sight of it.
“This will help counteract what they gave you.You need some antibiotics and vitamins.I’ll give you an IV, too.You’re going to feel sleepy, but that’s normal.You need rest.”
I’m still tense, and without me saying a word, the handsome man who rescued me steps forward, taking my hand in his.He gives me a reassuring nod, and I stare into his dark eyes as the doctor gives me my shot and starts the IV.The needle pinches, but then cool relief spreads through my arm.
“Sleep,” the doctor says gently.“You’re safe here.We’ll keep an eye on you.”
Safe.
That word again.
The man moves closer.I feel it before I see it—his presence, solid and grounding.He kneels beside the couch, close enough that I can feel the heat of him.His fingers brush my hair back from my face.The touch is so tender that it makes my throat ache.
“You’re okay,” he says quietly, like the words are meant just for me.“I’ve got you.I won’t let anyone hurt you again.No one is going to take you.You’re home now.”
Home.
I don’t know what that means, not really.I don’t know where I am, how far I am from the place where I was taken, or what comes next, but I believe him.
“No one here will hurt you,” he continues, his voice low and certain.“I won’t let them.”
Something in the way he says it—so absolute, so unyielding—sends a strange shiver through me.Comfort and unease twist together in my chest.
“I’m not letting you go,” he adds.