Sleep finally claims her, pulling her under with a gentleness I envy.
She shifts again in her sleep, unconscious and seeking comfort, pressing against my side.
Her head finds its way to my shoulder, fitting into the space between my arm and my chest like it was made for it, and one hand comes to rest lightly on my chest, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of my skin.
I go rigid, every muscle locking into place, my breath catching in my throat.
This—this—is dangerous territory.
Not just because of what it looks like from the outside, but because of what it feels like from the inside.
The weight of her against me, solid and real and trusting.
The way she’s let herself be vulnerable, stripped down to her rawest self and placed that fragility in my hands.
The quiet intimacy of sharing space with someone who’s hurting as much as I am, maybe more.
I force myself to relax, consciously releasing the tension in my shoulders, my jaw, my hands.
I let her stay where she is, because moving her would wake her up, and she needs this.
She needs sleep, needs a few hours of peace before the nightmare starts all over again.
She needs to not be alone in a bed that smells like the man she might lose.
So I stay still, barely breathing, until eventually—slowly, carefully—one arm comes up to rest around her shoulders, holding her steady as she sleeps.
My hand settles against her upper arm, feeling the warmth of her skin through Xavier’s shirt, and I tell myself this is just practical.
Just keeping her from rolling away. Just making sure she stays comfortable. But I don’t sleep.
I can’t.
Because every time I close my eyes, every single goddamn time, I’m back in that moment—the crack of the gunshot echoing in my ears, sharp and unmistakable.
The way Xavier’s body jerked, his eyes going wide with shock before the pain hit.
The blood spreading across his chest like a stain I’ll never be able to scrub away, no matter how hard I try.
The weight of his body as I caught him, trying to keep him upright, my hands slipping in the blood that just kept coming.
Maybe I could’ve saved him.
In my soul I feel like I was the line between life and death for him.
I feel like I welcomed the grim reaper into that room just so I could have my sweet little killer.
Valentina shifts in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent, her lips moving against my shoulder.
The sound is soft, vulnerable, and I tighten my arm around her instinctively, my hand spreading across her back.
She settles again almost immediately, her breathing soft and steady, and I stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift as the sun continues its slow climb.
The weight of my guilt presses down like a physical thing, a stone on my chest that makes it hard to breathe.
This is my fault.
The words echo in my head, a condemnation I can’t escape.