Page 208 of Dark Night of the Soul

Same bed. Same windows. Same view of the gardens. Like I’d never left. Like the last four months had been a fever dream.

Except for the cameras outside. Those were new.

The door clicked shut behind me. Locked.

“Sit,” he said.

I sat on the edge of the bed aware of how heavy my limbs were.

He knelt in front of me and started unlacing my boots.

“I can do that,” I said.

“I know.” He pulled the first boot off. Then the second.

Then he stood and helped me out of my coat. The sweater underneath. Gentle. Patient. Like I was breakable.

I wasn’t. But I let him while still arguing, because apparently that was my brand.

“I’m not helpless.”

“Quit fighting me.”

When I was down to a tank top and cargo pants, he pulled back the covers.

“In.”

“But I still have on pants.”

“Then take them off.”

“Do you enjoy giving me orders?” I asked, but I was already moving.

“Yes.”

“Not surprised.”

I slid under the duvet—my duvet, in my bed, in my room—and after the rustle of fabric, he followed. He pulled me against him. I fit there. Against his chest, his warmth. Under his chin. Like the space had been carved out specifically for me.

His hand moved through my hair in slow strokes. Rhythmic. Grounding.

I closed my eyes. Breathed in his scent. Felt his heartbeat under my palm.

“I liked when it was just us,” I said, thinking of the cabin, Istanbul. Back when the world hadn’t followed us into every room.

“It’s just us now,” he said.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Because we both knew I’d never be alone again. Not with cameras on the outside and men at the gates and a wall of muscle that moved when I moved.

He didn’t argue. He held me like he was making a promise without words.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

“For what?”

“For bringing me home.”