As a day of discovery and tension lay ahead, Matthew retrieved the laptop and settled back into his reading, scrolling through files with the methodical attention of someone trying to understand a complex medical case.
His face was expressionless. There was no anger apparent as he processed the evidence of systematic deception and human trafficking disguised as humanitarian operations.
I closed my eyes and let exhaustion pull me under again. Each time I returned to consciousness, Matthew was in his chair, a solid, calming presence.
Neither of us said anything about the kiss, but the silence wasn't cold. It was the two of us existing in the same space.
Matthew took breaks for meals and snacks. I ate a turkey sandwich for dinner at his urging. He read for hours, occasionally making soft sounds of recognition or disgust as he revealed another piece of Hoyle's machinery. When the last light of day faded, the laptop screen cast a pale light across his features, highlighting the concentration lines between his eyebrows.
I lay awake on the couch, listening to the ambient sounds as the building settled into the night. Matthew's neighbor's television went silent upstairs. Traffic sounds from the street below thinned to occasional cars and the distant hum of the freeway.
Matthew finally closed the laptop. "I can take the floor," I announced.
He looked up, blinking. "What?"
"Tonight. I've slept in worse places than hardwood. I'd suggest you use your bed, but you won't leave me out of sight. So, the couch is yours."
"You're still healing." He stood and stretched, joints popping. "Chair is fine."
"You've been sleeping in that chair for two nights."
"I'm used to uncomfortable sleeping arrangements." He moved to the window, checking the locks with automatic precision. "Besides, it's my couch, and I'm offering it to you."
I couldn't argue with that, and I knew the sleeping arrangements weren't really about furniture. Matthew was positioning himself between me and the door, close enough to intervene if I tried to disappear again.
I watched him move through the apartment, noting how he tested each lock twice. In hushed tones, he called in to work to leave a message about taking another day off.
He settled back into his chair with a paperback book. "Bathroom's free if you need it."
Matthew had been expecting company, or he had made sure he'd prepared for it. In his bathroom, he left me a spare toothbrush in original packaging, travel-sized toothpaste, and a disposable razor.
When I returned to the living room, he'd dimmed the overhead light and switched on a small reading lamp. I arranged myself on the couch, testing how the stitches pulled when I moved. The pain had settled into a manageable ache, present but not overwhelming. My body demanded more rest.
Matthew inquired about my comfort. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"Uh-huh." He turned a page. "You're breathing like someone planning to run a marathon."
I forced my breathing to slow. "Better?"
"Getting there."
Matthew remained focused on me even while still reading his book.
I closed my eyes and tried to convince my nervous system to relax for the first time in weeks, maybe months. I told myself the man reading ten feet away wasn't a threat to monitor. He was a presence to appreciate.
As I drifted into sleep, a nightmare came without warning.
Suddenly, I was back in the concrete room where they'd held me for three days, fluorescent lights burning overhead like dead suns. Hoyle's voice echoed off the bare walls, calm and reasonable as he explained why cooperation was my only viable option.
A man beside him wore latex gloves. He sliced my skin with surgical precision. It was a knife cut that wasn't deep enough to cause permanent damage. It was only enough to remind me that pain was a choice.
I tried to speak and give them what they wanted, but the words wouldn't come. My tongue felt swollen and useless. Then the walls started closing in.
I jolted awake with a gasp. Sweat soaked the t-shirt Matthew had lent me, cold and clammy against my overheated skin. My heart pounded hard enough to make the stitches ache.
The apartment was dark except for the reading lamp, casting a small pool of warm light around Matthew's chair. The book lay open on his lap, but he stared at me.
