The thought is dangerous. Terrifying. Because if I let myself love him, if I let myself need him, then I have something to lose. And I can't afford to lose anything else.
But as I drift off to sleep, his arms still wrapped around me, his body still connected to mine, I can't help but think...
Maybe, just maybe, it would be worth it.
I wake slowly,my body deliciously sore, my mind pleasantly blank. For a moment, I don't remember where I am.
Then it all comes rushing back.
Ian.
I turn my head slightly, taking him in. He's still asleep, his face softer in repose, his body relaxed in a way I've never seen before. He's beautiful like this, the hard edges of him smoothed by sleep, the scars on his body just another part of the landscape of his skin.
My heart does that stuttering thing again, that dangerous, terrifying thing that feels too much like hope.
I should get up. Should put space between us before I do something stupid, like let myself believe this could be more than just a couple of fucks, more than just a moment of weakness.
But I can't bring myself to move. Can't bring myself to break the spell of this quiet morning, this peaceful moment, this feeling of being... safe.
So I lie there, watching him, memorizing him, letting myself have this one moment of pretending that this could be real, that this could last, that I could have something just for me.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself hope.
CHAPTER 5
The morning light filters through my curtains, painting stripes across the bed. Across Ian. He's still asleep, his face softer in repose, his body taking up more than his fair share of the mattress. I watch him for a moment, memorizing the lines of his face, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.
This has become our routine over the past week. Him staying the night, making breakfast while I get ready for class, riding the subway with me to and from campus. It's domestic in a way that terrifies me, this quiet companionship, this easy intimacy.
I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him. The apartment is small enough that I can see into the kitchen from here, can see the evidence of his presence everywhere. His jacket draped over the back of a chair. His shoes by the door. His toothbrush by the sink.
It's too much. Too real. Too much like something permanent.
I dress quickly, pulling on jeans and a sweater despite the heat. Then I pad into the kitchen, starting the coffee maker, the familiar routine grounding me.
The knock at the door is sharp, insistent.
"Ms. Young. Open the door."
Richard Blackwood.
I cross to the door on silent feet, my mind racing.
What’s he doing here?
I open the door, steeling myself for whatever comes next.
Richard stands there, impeccable in his suit, his expression unreadable. His eyes scan me quickly, taking in my disheveled state, before settling on my face.
"We need to talk," he says, his voice leaving no room for argument.
I step back, opening the door wider in silent invitation. He steps inside.
"Coffee?" I ask, needing something to do with my hands.
Richard nods once, his gaze returning to me. "Please."
I turn to the kitchen, pouring two mugs, my back to him. "What's this about?"
