He crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed, careful to leave space between us. “No apology needed. Want to talk about it?”
I shook my head, then changed my mind. “Marcus. Breaking in again. But this time no one came.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. “He’s in custody. No bail. He physically can’t reach you here.”
“I know. Logically, I know that.” I pulled my knees to my chest. “But logic isn’t exactly running the show right now.”
“Understandable. Your body’s still processing the trauma.” He ran a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair. “Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?”
The thought of being alone in this room again made my chest constrict. “Could I—” I stopped, the request sticking in my throat. Too needy. Too much.
“Could you what?” he prompted gently.
I forced myself to meet his eyes. “Could I maybe sleep in your room tonight? Not—not in your bed or anything. Just… somewhere I can see you. Hear you breathing.” Heat flooded my face. “That sounds creepy. Forget I—”
“It’s not creepy,” he interrupted. “It’s a perfectly reasonable response to trauma.”
His expression remained carefully neutral, but I caught the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.
“The floor’s fine,” I rushed to add. “I just… I can’t be alone right now.”
Damian was quiet for a long moment, and I braced for rejection. Instead, he nodded once, decisively. “Alright. Bring your pillow and the spare blanket. I’ll set something up.”
Relief washed through me. “Thank you.”
I followed him down the hallway to the master bedroom, clutching my pillow like a shield. His room was exactly what I’d expected—tasteful, minimalist, everything in its place. A king-sized bed dominated the space, with large windows overlooking the backyard garden.
“Wait here,” he said, disappearing into what I assumed was a closet. He returned with an exercise mat, which he unrolled on the floor beside the bed. “It’s not ideal, but it’s better than hardwood.”
“That’s for me, right?” I asked, already moving toward it.
“No,” he said firmly. “You take the bed.”
“Damian, I can’t kick you out of your own bed.”
“You’re not kicking me out. I’m offering.” His tone was gentle but left no room for argument. “You’ve been through enough. The last thing you need is a night on the floor.”
I hesitated, caught between gratitude and guilt. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” He arranged a blanket over the mat, then stepped back. “Bathroom’s through there if you need it. I’m a light sleeper, so wake me if you need anything.”
Reluctantly, I climbed into his bed, sinking into the comfortable mattress. Damian switched off the overhead light, leaving only the soft glow of a bedside lamp. The floor creaked as he settled onto his makeshift bed.
“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice floating up from below.
“Yes. Thank you.”
He reached for the lamp, then paused. “Light on or off?”
“Off is fine,” I said, surprising myself. The darkness had seemed threatening before, but here, with Damian’s steady breathing nearby, it felt almost peaceful.
The room plunged into darkness. I listened to Damian’s breathing gradually slow and deepen. For the first time since the attack, the tightness in my chest began to unwind. I burrowed deeper into the covers, and as I did, I caught the subtle scent of sandalwood and cleanlaundry that lingered on the pillows. Damian’s scent. It should have made me anxious—sleeping in another man’s bed—but instead, I felt oddly safe. Protected.
“Damian?” I whispered, not sure if he was still awake.
“Mm?” His voice was thick with approaching sleep.
“Thank you. For everything.”
