"Better if you don't." His fingers brushed my wrist briefly. "This is something I need to do alone."
The car's rear door opened, revealing glimpses of recording equipment and a woman with silver hair who studied Dorian with professional attention.
He looked back once, and I nodded. Permission. Trust. Whatever passed for a blessing between people who'd learned to love each other in the spaces between catastrophes. He disappeared into the dark interior.
I stood on the sidewalk until the car vanished around the corner, carrying Dorian toward whatever came next. The man who climbed out of that car when he returned might not be the same one who'd climbed in—but he'd still be mine.
Chapter twenty-four
Dorian
The sheets smelled like Matthew's cedar soap. I counted his heartbeats against my palm.
I'd finally stopped registering threats. No mental inventories of the weapons within reach. It let me concentrate on the weight of Matthew's arm across my ribs, still a little tender but not enough to ask him to move.
The apartment's familiar sounds filtered through the thin walls—Mrs. Kaminski's morning routine upstairs, pipes groaning as water traveled through decades-old tubing, and the distant hum of traffic building toward rush hour.
I pressed my nose against Matthew's collarbone, breathing him in. The morning stretched ahead without pressing responsibilities.
The bandage along my hip crinkled as I shifted position, medical tape pulling against skin that was finally knitting itself back together. It was evidence of past violence, but also proof of healing. Matthew's careful stitching held me intact while my body remembered how to repair itself.
Matthew's hand twitched against my stomach, fingers spreading wider in sleep. Even unconscious, he reached for the reassurance of warm skin. I covered his hand with mine.
This is what normal feels like.
The previous day's interview replayed itself in pieces, my memory landing on disconnected moments like shuffling through photographs. The studio's aggressive air conditioning raised goosebumps along my forearms.
Ally Richmond. She wasn't the ambushing predator I expected, hungry for blood and ratings. She leaned forward when I spoke, listening instead of calculating her next attack angle. She asked questions that led to the truth instead of sensation.
The strangest part wasn't the questions, the lights, or even the surreal experience of voluntarily exposing myself after months of invisibility. It was my absence of shame. I'd expected to feel stripped and violated, like I was bleeding secrets onto the expensive carpet for public consumption.
Instead, I returned home relieved. Each answer lifted weight from my shoulders, including years of accumulated guilt.
"Thank you for listening like it matters," I'd told Ally afterward. We shook hands in the hallway while production assistants coiled cables around their arms.
She smiled. "It does matter, and you told your story like someone who understands the cost."
Now, with Matthew's steady breathing at my side, I realized I wasn't mentally rehearsing different answers or calculating what I should have said. The memories were quiet and oddly satisfying.
Matthew's body registered consciousness in stages—a deeper inhale that expanded his chest against my back, and a subtle weight shift as muscle tension returned to his limbs.
"Did you sleep at all?" His voice was thick and scratchy.
"Yeah. Eventually." I twisted enough to catch his eye, noting the crease lines pressed into his cheek from the pillowcase. "You snore like a freight train, you know."
He chuckled. "Freight train's an exaggeration. More like a... satisfied bear."
"Satisfied bear?" I laughed. "That's somehow worse."
"Bears are noble creatures. Environmentally important." He pushed toward me until we kissed, sending prickly sensations up my spine. "Essential to forest ecosystems."
"You're comparing your snoring to ecosystem management?"
"My snoring maintains the delicate balance of—" His words dissolved as his mouth found the sensitive spot behind my ear, teeth grazing my skin.
The conversation died a natural death as Matthew's hand slid across my ribs. His palm was warm against the bandage covering my hip, pressure just heavy enough to remind me that some wounds were still healing.
Matthew's hand splayed out, fingers dipping below the rumpled waistband of my boxers, just resting there, warm and large and familiar. He shifted behind me, spooning up close, hips flush against my ass, and exhaling against my neck.
