Chapter 8: Claiming Her Again
He stayed with her on the kitchen floor, his thumbs smoothing over her cheekbones until her breathing steadied. The hard tiles were unforgiving, a stark contrast to the lingering warmth where their bodies had connected. She felt hollowed out and filled up all at once, a confusing, shameful peace settling over her.
“You’re cold,” he said softly. His voice was back to its normal register, the rough edge of command gone.
She nodded, a slight shiver running through her. Her knees ached.
“Come on.” He stood, offering his hands. He pulled her up, her legs stiff and trembling. He didn’t let go once she was upright. Instead, he guided her silently down the short hall to his bedroom.
It was exactly as she remembered, yet utterly changed. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled. The faint, ghostly imprint she’d left on his life was more literal here: a hairpin on the nightstand she’d used years ago, the familiar dent in the pillow on her side of the bed. The faded photos on the dresser were still turned face down. A single glass, with an amber residue of whiskey at the bottom, sat beside them. The afternoon sun sliced through the blinds, painting stripes of light and shadow across the rumpled duvet.
He let go of her hand and began pulling back the covers, a simple, domestic gesture that felt more intimate than what had just happened in the kitchen. She stood frozen, watching him. The silent offer was clear.
“I shouldn’t stay,” she whispered, the words lacking all conviction.
He paused, his back to her. “I know.”
He turned, his blue eyes meeting hers. In them, she saw the same war from the doorway, hope and concern now tinged with a deep, weary understanding. “But you’re here. And you’re shaking.”
It was true. The adrenaline was leaching away, leaving a cold vulnerability in its wake. She began to undress, her movements clumsy. Her sweater, her jeans, her underwear—all fell to the floor in a heap beside his discarded sweatpants.