His hands come up to cup my face—gentle, reverent. Thecontrast to his words is dizzying.
“Angel. You are the light to my dark. Everything about you fascinates me. Your laugh is the best sound in the world. The strength you wear like armour, the way you hold yourself together even when you’re crumbling—it’s awe-inspiring. I want to know everything. What makes you laugh. What makes you cry. What you love, what you hate. I want to make you smile every day for the rest of your life.”
I swallow hard, throat tight, breath caught somewhere between terror and… something else.
“I don’t understand,” I murmur.
He pulls back slightly, and the loss of his touch sends a strange wave of disappointment through me.
“You will,” he says softly.
“What’s your name?” I ask, switching tack.
“Pass.”
“Where are you from?”
“Chelmsford.”
I blink, surprised he actually answered that.
“How old are you?”
He hesitates. “Thirty.”
I’m older.
Why does that matter, Emily?
“Do you have a job?”
For a moment, I expect him to shut down again.
“I… am an artist. Of sorts.”
“An artist?”
He confirms but doesn’t elaborate.
We lapse into silence, though this time it feels oddly comforting. It shouldn’t. Nothing about this is normal. But there’s something settling about him being here. I feel safe.
Which is… completely ludicrous.
This man held a knife to my throat. Hecutme.
Good lord, lock me up and throw away the key.
He starts asking me questions, gentle ones, and we end up talking for a long time. He offers crumbs of himself—never too much, but enough to keep me curious.
I study him as exhaustion begins to creep in.
He looks comfortable, like he belongs here. His leather jacketclings to him just right, and the rips in his black jeans only accentuate his thick, muscular thighs.
My breathing slows, and eventually I feel myself drifting, darkness curling around me.
When I wake, sunlight spills through the blinds. A blanket—one that wasn’t there before—is draped over me.
I blink, momentarily disoriented.