The timing feels off, and it’s not pleasant to talk about. But I don’t feel the harm in telling him.
“He broke bones, including my skull,” I whisper. A breath. “And he strangled me and left me with scars.”
The room changes.
Soren doesn’t react immediately. He doesn’t look shocked or horrified. He goes still. Focused. “Did he use one hand,” he asks quietly, “or two?”
My breath catches. “What?”
His eyes don’t leave mine.
Then he exhales. “Doesn’t matter.”
But it does. I can feel that it does.
And my body starts to feel the residual effects of what happened to me before my mind does. A chill runs down my spine as I recall the gravity of what happened, of just how close I came to…
He moves back into the room again, then. Sits on the edge of the bed, near me but not too close. “Never again,” he says. “Nothing like that is going to happen to you ever again.”
The words land heavy.
Something tightens low in my chest.
He reaches out. His hand pauses for a fraction of a second, then slides into my hair. Not asking.
I don’t pull away.
His fingers move slowly. Measured. Learning. “You’re safe here,” he murmurs. “I’ll make sure of it.”
The words hit like warmth. And something sharper underneath.
His hand shifts from my hair to my cheek. His thumb brushes lightly under my eye.
I don’t move, because I’m tired. Because his touch is careful, and my body reacts before my brain does.
He leans closer. Not kissing me yet. Just close enough that Ifeel his breath. “Like I said, I’ll take the spare room,” he says quietly. “I meant that.”
Relief loosens my ribs again.
But he doesn’t move, his hand still on my face. “I can stay though,” he adds. “If you want. You tell me what you want.”
He already knows.
I swallow. “I don’t want to be alone.” The words come out small. Honest.
Soren’s breath shifts. “Okay.”
He moves then. Slow and controlled. Slides into the bed beside me. Not touching or crowding. His hand finds mine under the covers, and he threads our fingers together.
My breath stutters. It feels too intimate.
His grip tightens slightly. Not enough to hurt.
Enough to remind me he’s there. Anchoring. Claiming.
His thumb moves slowly over the back of my hand. “You can sleep now,” he says.
My chest tightens.