The Window
Julian woke to absence. The bed beside him was cold, the hollow where her body should have been already cooling. For one suspended moment, panic seized him.
Then he saw her.
She sat in the gray wash of morning, knees drawn in, hair tangled down her back. His shirt hung loose, slipping from one shoulder to bare more bruise than skin. Against the window she looked spectral, as though she hadn't yet chosen to remain in this world.
The Approach
He didn't speak her name. Not yet. He crossed the floor with measured steps, every movement deliberate. The silence between them felt fragile enough to shatter beneath the wrong word.
When he reached her, she turned faintly, eyes lifting through strands of hair. Red-rimmed, glassy, but searching. Waiting.
His hand brushed her shoulder, slid down to her wrist. Her skin was cool. She didn't pull away.
The Kiss
She leaned into him first. Her lips met his, quiet. A kiss stripped bare of obedience or rebellion.
Different.
Her trembling hands framed his jaw, fingertips anchoring as if afraid he might dissolve. His breath caught, steady control breaking. Her mouth pressed to his again, softer this time, lingering.
The Claim
When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his. Her breath trembled across his lips, her whisper spilling out, raw, fragile:
"Sir."
The word wasn't about submission. It wasn't command. It was tether. Survival.
His hand slid to the back of her neck, not binding but keeping her there, proving she hadn't slipped away. He pressed his mouth to her temple, grounding her in silence, in breath, in him.
The Holding
Her body folded against his, bare legs curling toward him, shirt slipping loose. He gathered her into his lap on the floor, her arms winding around his shoulders as though relearning how to hold.
The window hummed faintly with morning traffic. The world moved on, but inside the room there was only her breathing; shallow, uneven, then slowly syncing to his.
He rested his chin in her damp hair, every muscle taut, as though loosening might let her vanish. Inch by inch, she sagged into him until her weight was fully his, until her breath smoothed, until sleep brushed her eyes closed again.
Julian held her there, gaze fixed on the light crawling up the wall. He didn't move. He didn't dare.
Because in that fragile silence, she had chosen him. And he wondered if this was love. Terrifying in its quiet, undeniable in its hold.
The Return
Her fists balled in his shirt, desperate, ashamed, clinging as though she would drown without his hold.
Julian crushed her against him, arms locked as if to bind her to the world itself. "You did nothing wrong," he said, low, rough, carved from the core of him. "Do you hear me? Nothing."
Her sobs shook through him, dismantling every wall he had built. He rocked her faintly, his mouth pressed to her hairline, whispering her name between repetitions of safe, mine, with me.
And slowly, so slowly, the violence of her cries dulled, breaking into smaller, uneven breaths. Exhaustion pulled her under, her tears still wet against his shirt, her body curled small in his arms.
Julian stayed there, holding her until her weight softened, until her breath steadied. She didn't see the way his jaw set, or how his hand shook once before steadying against her hair. She didn't hear the words he didn't say aloud: I won't let this stand.
The city was still dark when her eyes closed at last. He didn't move. He couldn't. And somewhere in the silence, he knew the night was far from over.