Evensong (Ch 12)

Wherein a day of laughter and flirtation bends toward desire and darkness.

« previous chapter

---

Warning: this chapter contains a description of attempted sexual assault.

---

The train ride to Hartford was filled with soft landscapes blurring past in the window. Harold and Eva sat side by side facing forward, the space between them slowly filling in.

Conversation was halting at first. A few remarks about the sunny weather. A comment on the way Connecticut trees always seemed a week behind Manhattan’s in blooming. Then Harold nodded toward a toddler trying to swipe a candy bar from their mother’s coat pocket.

“See that?” he gestured. “A reversal of the forbidden fruit: stealing candy for a baby.”

Eva laughed with a lightweight sound that turned a few heads. Her shoulders settled.

Harold seized his opening. He shared a story about Jason hiding his pet frog in the dishwasher, insisting it would “help with the rinse cycle.” Then one about his daughter, Emily, who was shocked to find out she was unable to fire the nanny for putting her teddy bear in time-out.

Eva added an anecdote about her niece threatening to sue her 2nd grade teacher for “emotional distress” after snack time privileges were revoked. “It runs in the family,” she explained. “Greg’s sister is an attorney.”

Harold chuckled and inched closer. They began teasing each other, pointing out quirky landmarks, then launched into a game of volleying obscure lines of poetry back and forth with escalating bravado.

After her third perfect guess, Harold accused her of cheating. Eva steadfastly insisted she was simply better—and truthfully she was. He refused to concede until she offered to blow him in the museum bathroom. That did it. Hands raised, he surrendered to her superior command of verse.

A train delay cut into their time, so they inhaled dry sandwiches from the café—iced tea for her, sparkling water for him.They made their way to the front steps of Mark Twain’s stately house, arriving just in time to queue up for their tour slot.

They did their best to pay attention as the guide—an enthusiastic woman with the unfortunate cadence of a Cajun Miss Piggy—began her introduction. Within minutes, Harold and Eva had locked eyes in disbelief, barely suppressing laughter.

Eva struck first, copping a feel through Harold’s jeans when the guide turned her back. He choked on his surprise, then retaliated—licking his lips lecherously. But a flower-bloused grandmother caught him mid-performance, and her disapproval killed the fun.

Undeterred, he leaned over and began whispering filthy promises in Eva’s ear—exactly how he’d take her in that very room, with explicit detail. He did it again at every stop. The first time, she gasped. The second, covered her mouth to smother laughter. By the third, she was blushing so fiercely she had to step behind him to restore her composure.

The guide continued, rambling on about Twain’s pipe smoke and wit while Harold and Eva trailed behind, dancing between reverence and subversion.

Afterwards they ditched the tour group and wandered the gardens, where their highly charged mood settled into something more proper. The sun had softened to amber, and the gravel crunched delightfully beneath their feet. Harold offered his arm gallantly, channeling Twain with an exaggerated drawl and twirling an invisible mustache, tossing off witticisms like confetti. Eva laughed until she almost cried, and something in that sound—a bright, unguarded burst of joy—settled over Harold like an embrace he hadn’t known he’d wanted. He realized, with a ripple of surprise, that her laughter was becoming addictive.

When the path curved behind a small hedge, away from the main area, the playfulness seemed to drift away on the breeze. Their hands remained clasped, but the current changed. Leaves rustled overhead, dappled light spilling onto grass. Their talk turned inward, meandering on shared curiosity.

Eva brought up Anaïs Nin’s Delta of Venus, and they traded thoughts on their favorite chapters—her affection for “Marianne,” his preference for “Elena”—a literary flirtation that veered into travel stories. She spoke of a sabbatical in Rome—long days, dauntless appetite. He recalled his early-twenties tour through Europe: trains and hostels, during the stretch between undergrad and med school.

They found a chipped bench beneath slender trees. The shade was welcome, the solitude inviting. Eva sat beside Harold and began to speak of her parents.

She told how her mother used to read poetry aloud to her—Dunbar, especially. “In The Morning” had always made her laugh uncontrollably. Her father, on the other hand, was a singer of lullabies. Edelweiss, from The Sound of Music, had been a bedtime favorite. Without thinking, she started singing a few bars, her voice bright and exposed.

Harold joined her.

His was a rich, unexpected baritone that carried the melody effortlessly. It wasn’t polished, but it was resonant and warm, like something long dormant reaching for the memory of distinguished posture on unsteady legs. Eva faded out in surprise, leaving him to finish alone, his eyes locked on hers.

All the while, his mind traveled back to the poem he’d read the previous night…the bird, the cage, the song. Suddenly, she was no longer a puzzle to be solved. It was all coming together now, the symbols that had once seemed distant coalesced into a full picture of understanding.

When the final note faded, Eva looked at him with wide eyes, stunned by the intimacy of it all. Harold only smiled and said the song felt prayerful to him—a prayer of gratitude for home, and family, and belonging.

She asked about his voice, where it came from, but Harold deflected with a vague comment about singing in college and then changed the subject.

He steered the conversation toward his own childhood. Both parents were teachers. He excelled early—skipped his senior year in high school, started college at sixteen. But brilliance burned hot, and he faded shortly after graduation. After a break, he leaned into medicine.

Eva listened attentively. The bench beneath them moaned softly, and the wind rustled the leaves around them lazily. Eventually they ran out of words and merely sat, letting the quiet hold them.

On the ride home, Eva fell asleep against his shoulder. Harold put his arm around her protectively and she burrowed deeper on instinct. He turned to the window, watching shadows stretch across the land, claiming the last of the day’s light.

He had opened the cage door; the next step was up to her.

When they arrived home, Harold suggested they order in. He knew a Thai restaurant in town that made an amazing panang curry. Eva agreed, and he placed an order for the both of them while she went upstairs to shower and change.

Halfway down the stairs, Eva spotted Harold in the foyer—phone to his ear, brow furrowed, body taut with adrenaline. He saw her, mouthed “one second,” then ended the call. Apology was already written on his face.

“Eva, I’m so sorry,” he began, grabbing his keys.

“Is the restaurant closed?” she asked. “I’m fine with pretty much anything but fast food.”

“It’s the hospital,” he said. “Open‑globe trauma—industrial accident, metal shard to the cornea. They need it closed fast.”

Eva furrowed her brow, the words only half‑making sense. “Someone you know?”

He met her gaze. “I’m on call at Greenwich Hospital this weekend—something I arranged weeks ago. It completely slipped my mind when I invited you.” He pulled on his coat while speaking. “Without fast repair, the patient could lose their eye or go septic.”

She stood at the base of the stairs, gently leaning against the bottom rung of the bannister. “So you’re the on‑call surgeon here.”

“One of them. They hardly ever bring me in…just my luck that it would happen today.” He looked genuinely heartbroken.

“How long will you be?”

He shrugged. “A few hours if it’s simple. All night if it’s the retina.” He touched her arm. “Food’s ordered, should be here soon. Just put mine in the fridge.”

Eva swallowed. “I hope it goes well.”

His eyes softened and he nodded. “Me too. Feel free to do whatever, go wherever you like. I’ll text when I’m out of surgery.”

“Be careful,” she said, as he leaned in to kiss her cheek.

“I’ll try not to lose sight of that,” he joked. It earned him a polite smile, though her heart wasn’t in it.

Harold’s coat flared as the door closed behind him, urgency lingering in his wake.

Alone now, Eva wandered the house—her first proper tour. No secret sex dungeons were uncovered, just Harold’s tidy restraint. She lit the fireplace, poured more vermouth, and curled into a salon chair with Eros and Pathos. The curry arrived warm and perfect; she saved Harold’s pad thai, poured herself more vermouth, and continued reading. Before long, she was lulled into slumber by the smoothness of the liqueur and the heaviness of Carotenuto’s depictions of love and pain.

She woke in darkness, and glanced at her phone: 9:53 p.m. Three hours, and no text from Harold. She drained her glass and started upstairs.

Before she hit the first step, a sharp light caught her eye—a glare coming from the pool house. Jason, probably. She crossed back through the salon and opened the back door. Laughter carried across the yard—feverish, unrestrained, a mixture of male and female.

Eva started to close the door, then hesitated. She hadn’t realized how fragile she felt until the silence had settled around Harold’s abrupt departure. This was supposed to be a night of comfort; instead, it had left her hollow. The laughter peaked again.

What the hell, she thought.

She slipped her shoes on and crossed the lawn, following the solar lights. The laughter cut off the moment she opened the door. Jason turned, and three strangers with him.

One girl, short dark hair, legs folded on the couch arm. The other, sun‑touched blonde, crop top, beer in hand—both slim and sleepless in the easy way of college-aged kids with fast metabolisms.

The young man, however, made Eva’s breath catch.

He was taller than Jason, broad-shouldered and lean, with tousled hair that looked like it had been styled by accident or wind. A fitted sleeveless tank clung to his torso, outlining the sharp planes of his pecs and the ridges of a six-pack that had clearly been hard-won. His arms were sculpted and tan, and the commanding line of his jaw made him look older than he probably was. But it was his eyes that held her. They were startlingly green, quietly curious.

Her gaze lingered just a touch too long before she forced it back to Jason, exhaling like someone who’d wandered into the wrong dream.

“Oh…hey,” Jason stammered.

“Hey yourself,” His nervousness oddly steadied her. Or maybe that was the vermouth. “Mind if I join?”

“Sure,” he said, gesturing to an empty chair. “Where’s my dad?”

“He didn’t tell you? He got called in for emergency surgery, headed to the hospital hours ago.”

“Oh yeah. He does that sometimes.” Jason shifted his weight, still uneasy.

“When’s the pizza coming?” the blonde blurted out suddenly.

“Shut up, Maddie,” the brunette said, then she giggled. Eva started to doubt her decision to crash whatever this was.

“Everyone, this is Eva,” Jason said. “My dad’s, umm…girlfriend.”

He looked at her questioningly and Eva gave him a small nod. Simpler words meant safer ground.

“Ooo, the one who does the stuff?” the blonde slurred. She took a swig from her beer, flashing a glassy eyed stare.

Jason glared at her but she ignored it.

“Jace said you’re into, like, bondage and spanking.”

So much for discretion.

“Sometimes,” Eva said evenly.

Both girls gawked. The green-eyed hunk straightened. Jason tried to discourage them but was ignored. The questions came hard and fast.

So, like…you get tied up with rope or handcuffs?” the dark-haired one asked.

“Both,” Eva said mildly. “Rope for beauty, cuffs for efficiency.”

That earned a breathy “whoa” from the girl with the beer. “And it doesn’t hurt?”

“Sometimes,” Eva said. “But pain isn’t the point. It’s what happens when you learn how to trust someone enough to play near it.”

The girls exchanged a look that was half fascination, half disbelief.

“So, is it all sex stuff?” the first one blurted. “You don’t, like, grocery shop in cuffs, right?”

Eva laughed softly. “No cuffs in public. And no—it’s not all sex. There’s control, surrender, care. It’s psychological before it’s physical.”

“But why would anyone want to get hit?” the blonde pressed.

Jason groaned. “Can we not—”

Eva cut him off gently. “Because when it’s done by someone who reads you well, it can feel grounding. Like pressure after chaos.” She smiled faintly. “And sometimes, it’s simply beautiful.”

Beer girl blinked. “Beautiful?”

“Discipline and devotion can be beautiful things,” Eva said. “So can surrender. We just don’t always have the language for it.”

The dark‑haired one squinted. “Are you, like…afraid of him?”

“Of Harold?” Eva asked. “No. I trust him fully. There’s no fear, only respect.”

The green‑eyed man spoke at last, voice low. “Ever been in real danger?”

Eva paused, studying him before answering.

“Once,” she replied, “when I was younger. I let someone go too far, and he ended up choking me until I was unconscious. He didn’t mean harm—he just didn’t understand what he was doing, and I didn’t know how to stop him. That’s when I learned the difference between thrill and risk.”

“Did you like it?”

“I liked the edge,” she admitted, “up to a point. But not losing control of my voice.” She folded her arms loosely. “If you can’t speak, you can’t consent. These days, I make my limits known long before anything starts. Boundaries aren’t just about safety—they’re about respect. That’s what makes the whole thing work.”

He nodded thoughtfully, and his gaze swept her face once, then drifted lower to the easy set of her shoulders, the calm control in her posture. He said nothing, only leaned back slightly, his attention lingering in silence.

Jason rolled his eyes. “Great, you’ve officially ruined vanilla dating forever.”

Eva tilted her head thoughtfully. “Or maybe I’ve just raised the bar.”

The door banged open. “Your feast arrives!” A stocky kid entered, buried under a pile of pizza boxes.

“Yes!” Jason grabbed them and plopped them on the table. The entire group swarmed. Eva stepped back from the feeding frenzy, declining Jason’s offer of a slice. He looked relieved to have the attention off her.

“You want a beer?” the green‑eyed one asked, fishing from a cooler. He held one aloft and Eva peered at the label.

“Light lager?” She made a face.

He laughed. “Yeah me neither.” Dropping it back, he crossed to her, hands in the pockets of his grey sweats. “I bet there’s better stuff elsewhere.”

“You’re not wrong,” she said, eyes roving over the outline of his chest.

“I’m Tyler.”

She looked up, caught his smirk, and blushed.

“You got any scotch in the big house?” he asked.

Eva tried to hide her nerves with a laugh. “Are you even allowed inside?”

“If I have an escort,” he said, grin deepening.

She rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself.

“Fine. Follow me.”

He followed her into the house. At the bar cart, she poured him two fingers of scotch. He angled for a third, but she arched a brow—no deal. She poured herself a double vermouth instead, telling herself it was just to take the edge off.

They sipped in silence for a minute, then fell into casual talk. Tyler was older than the others, as she’d guessed. He worked as an apprentice electrician, and lifeguarded at Jennings Beach on weekends in the summer. He met Jason at UConn Stamford. Neither had finished, but they’d kept in touch.

Conversation drifted from shitty jobs to dive bars to books. He’d recently picked up The Picture of Dorian Gray, he said, “because someone told me it was about a hot guy with secrets, said we had something in common.” Eva laughed, genuinely amused.

She caught it then: the way his gaze lingered on her mouth. The slow scan down her collarbone. More than idle curiosity.

He finished his scotch in one smooth pull, wiped the back of his hand against his mouth, and stepped toward her.

“Can I?”

“Can you what?”

The question didn’t finish—his mouth was on hers, warm and confident. No lunging, no tongue shoved clumsily against her teeth. Just the press of soft lips against hers and the faint taste of oak and smoke.

When he pulled away, her eyes were glazed, her breath shallow. He smiled and plucked the glass from her hand, set it down, and kissed her again—this time with more certainty, more heat. His hands found her waist, his touch warm even through the cotton of her shirt. One hand slid up, tracing the slope of her ribs. When his palm grazed her side, skin on skin, she inhaled sharply.

Her hands, almost of their own accord, found his arms. They were solid—cut and coiled with strength, but not bulky. Chiseled, like something carved by intention. She let her fingers explore the curve of his biceps, the taut edge of his shoulder. He felt like a living sculpture.

He drew back long enough to tug his shirt off. She blinked. God.

Tyler stood there like something conjured: hair tousled, eyes the color of seaglass. A torso that belonged in a museum: strong shoulders, firm pecs, the subtle ladder of a six-pack carved down his stomach.

Without a word, his hands wrapped around her waist, and he lifted her clean off the floor. She laughed, startled, as her legs wrapped instinctively around his hips. He carried her with impossibly powerful arms toward the wide leather sectional against the far wall and set her down with effortless strength.

His mouth brushed her neck, and she tilted her head without thinking. Her hands curled into the muscled brawn of his back. Then, just as his hand began to inch beneath the waistband of her pants, he paused, looking at her. Waiting for her to lead, or to stop him.

There was intensity behind his gaze, not just heat. Something that wanted to press in.

Eva met his eyes, chest rising and falling. There was no doubt in his expression, only that quiet edge of patience men sometimes wear when they realize the object of their desire is not just willing, but present.

For a moment, her mind flickered elsewhere. Harold.

The weight of his hands. The sound of his voice. The way he looked at her, like she was something rare and staggering. And how, despite everything—despite their recklessness, their unraveling—he’d told her she was here to heal, in whatever way she needed.

She let herself unfold toward Tyler, not just with desire, but with full-bodied permission. She wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring, but she knew what she needed right now.

Whatever this was, it was hers to choose.

Tyler reached down and grabbed something from the pocket of his discarded sweats. She felt the whisper of foil, the soft rip of anticipation, the inevitable weight of choice giving way.

His sheathed arousal met her body with slow, devastating precision. The world outside dimmed, reduced to rhythm, pressure, and pulse. Eva arched, eyelids fluttering. Pleasure blurred into something sharper—then smoothed into something whole. Every nerve attuned.

He gathered both her wrists in one hand, pinning them gently above her head. His grin hovered somewhere between mischief and lust as he whispered, low and teasing.

“You like that, don’t you?”

Her voice was breathless. “Sure.”

His mouth found her throat, teeth grazing firm enough to mark, but gentle enough to promise. She gasped, and he answered with another kiss, soothing where he’d bitten. The sound of their breathing filled the room, fast and feral.

For a moment, Eva let herself disappear into receptivity—not from loss, but because finally she could stop holding herself together.

Tyler’s breath came rough against her ear. “Can I tie your wrists?”

Eva flushed, half dazed from their pace. The sight of him—skin sheened in sweat, confidence simmering—made speech impossible. She nodded, mesmerized.

He grabbed his discarded tank, and twisted it expertly. The fabric looped around her wrists, snug and sure. Sturdier than expected, but not cruel.

“You like it tight, yeah?” he murmured, teasing.

She gasped, not from pain but from the way her body lit up. She closed her eyes and let herself vanish into sensation—the weight of him, the strange sweetness of not having to do anything but feel.

Just as she’d begun to drift completely into it, Tyler paused. With a sudden, fluid movement, he pulled out and rolled her easily beneath him. She lay on her stomach now, and he braced one hand against her back to keep her there. Something felt off, but she wanted to believe it was just nerves.

Then, a spitting sound—wet, unmistakable. He pressed his fingers between her round cheeks, slick and deliberate. Another spit. Her thoughts caught up just as she felt the heat of his hand again, slower now, more deliberate, pressing moisture into her ample cleft.

Her mind snapped back into focus. Instinct flared—no. She tried to twist away, voice rising in protest, but he ignored it. Her skin itched with panic. The shift from confusion to certainty happened in a single, searing instant of overwhelming pressure.

“I know you like the pain, baby,” he crooned. “And I love the struggle.”

Adrenaline surged, clearing the fog. She bucked and flailed, fighting through the hurt. Her voice tore from her throat, raw and urgent, filling the empty house. Tyler moved one hand to cover her mouth—his first mistake.

Eva bit down, hard.

Tyler let out a sharp yelp and recoiled instinctively. Eva seized the moment, twisting with all her strength until she was face-up again. Then she drove her heel square into his groin, swift and merciless. The blow lifted him backwards off the couch. He hit the floor with a heavy thud.

She surged upright, writhing free of the makeshift wrist-bind. Tyler was still doubled over, groaning. She snatched up her shirt and pants from the floor, casting one glance behind her. He was already trying to rise, cursing freely.

Eva bolted.

She tore out of the house and sprinted into the yard, grass wet and cold underfoot. She veered around the pool and ducked behind the side of the guest house, out of sight. Her hands shook as she yanked her clothes back on.

Then she looked. Tyler—bare‑chested and furious—was coming across the lawn.

Eva ran for the door, but Tyler’s arm locked around her waist before she got there. His hand clamped over her mouth, more securely this time, silencing her cry. Panic clawed into her throat.

“Tyler?”

Jason’s voice cut across the yard. The pool house door had swung open, flooding the lawn with light for a moment until it shut behind him. He froze, confusion snapping instantly to fury.

“Get off her!” he shouted, striding forward.

Tyler’s grip loosened. Eva wrenched free and stumbled toward Jason, gasping.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jason demanded.

Tyler’s tone turned defensive. “We were just fooling around.”

“That wasn’t fooling around,” Eva cut in, her voice shaking. “You tried to force yourself on me.”

Tyler scoffed. “Oh, come on. You heard her earlier, Jace—she said she liked it rough. I was just giving her what she wanted.”

Jason took a step forward, shoulders squared. “Get out. Now.”

Tyler hesitated. For a moment, Eva thought he might swing at him—but then his expression curdled into a bitter laugh.

“Fuck you both.” He turned and stalked off through the side gate.

Silence followed. Jason exhaled hard. “Are you okay?”

Eva was shaking, her pulse still racing. “Not yet. But I will be.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“Not really,” she said quietly. “I’ve had worse.”

Jason’s jaw tensed. He looked down, then back at her. “Can I get you anything? A drink? Some water?”

“No. I’m going back to the house.”

He nodded. “I’m so sorry. He wasn’t even invited. Maddie called him, she’s got this stupid crush on him, and I told her—”

“Jason,” Eva interrupted, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this right now.”

“Right, yeah,” he mumbled, “of course. I’m making it all about me, as usual.” He ran a hand nervously through his hair in a gesture that was more than a passing resemblance to his father.

She turned, then paused. “Jason…I think it’s best if we don’t tell your father about this.”

He exhaled. “Oh my god, thank you. He’d lose his shit if he knew someone in my group attacked his girlfriend.”

She tilted her head. “He told you I was his girlfriend?”

Jason hesitated. “Sort of. I asked if he was seeing anyone after mom filed for divorce. He admitted that he was dating someone—like real dating, not a fuck buddy situation. I figured it was you. Right?”

Eva looked at him for a long moment.

“Right,” she said.

She turned and walked away, the word echoing in her chest the whole way back to the house. Not a fling. Not a friend-with-benefits.

Actual dating.

Eva stepped back into the house, the door closing behind her like a seal on the night. She moved on instinct: upstairs, into the bathroom, shedding her clothes like a second skin she no longer wanted to wear. The vermouth had mixed badly with her nerves; she threw up, thankfully making it to the toilet in time—and thankfully just the once.

The shower water was scalding, but she welcomed it. Braced against the tile, she let the heat pour over her until the trembling eased. Her lips still tingled from Tyler’s kisses, a memory that had shifted from thrilling to terrifying in the span of minutes. Her pulse wouldn’t settle.

Wrapped in a towel, she checked her phone again. Still no word from Harold.

She gulped down some water then crawled into bed, damp hair curling over her shoulder, the pillow cool beneath her cheek. But sleep wouldn’t come. Her thoughts refused to settle. She saw his hands, his grin, the burn of the makeshift wrist tie. The shame rose again, followed by Jason’s voice:

“He said he was dating someone.”

She stared at the ceiling.

Dating someone.

And then, the darker thought crept in, sly and cruel: What if it wasn’t her? What if she’d read everything wrong—all the care Harold had shown, all the tenderness. What if she was just the casual weekend playmate after all, the rebound girl to drown out his insecurities, the warm body in his bed until something more serious came along?

But hadn’t she been the one to set the boundaries? Hadn’t she insisted on no labels, no ownership, no mess?

She reached for her phone again. Still no message. She lay there a while longer, turning her thoughts over until they were raw inside her.

Then she got up.

The hallway was quiet, the house dim. She padded barefoot to Harold’s master suite, hand hovering on the doorknob for a long moment before she turned it.

The room was shadowed, lit only by the faint spill of moonlight through the high windows. She stepped inside slowly, her eyes adjusting to the hush. The suite was large and elegant, anchored by a grand four-poster bed in dark carved wood. One side of the bed held a book, a wristwatch, and a pair of reading glasses. She moved to the other.

She took off her nightgown and slipped in, pulling the covers up over her shoulders. The scent of Harold’s cologne lingered faintly in the air, warm and woodsy. For a moment, she felt as if she might change her mind and bolt. But then her body softened. The sheets smelled like him, and the space around her felt safe. Slowly, her thoughts blurred and gave way to sleep.

Harold pulled into the driveway just after one a.m., bone-tired but riding the strange calm that sometimes followed surgery. The procedure had taken hours—an orbital fracture with retinal detachment, delicate and unforgiving—but it had gone well. He could feel it in his joints, though. He wasn’t thirty anymore.

He let himself in quietly, the house dark and still. Habit guided him through the foyer. When he opened the door to his bedroom and turned on the dimmest light, he stopped cold.

There she was.

Curled on the far side of his bed, facing away, tucked in like she’d always belonged there. His breath caught. He wasn’t sure why she was here. Had the guest bed failed to hold her? Or had she simply wanted to be near him, despite everything?

Whatever the reason, she was here.

He turned off the light again, letting the darkness embrace them both. In the ensuite bathroom, he showered quickly, the hot water chasing away the sterile chill of the hospital. When he returned, the only sound was her breathing—deep and even.

He slid into bed carefully, watching the slope of her back rise and fall. For a long time, he didn’t touch her. Just watched. Then, quietly, he reached out and draped his arm across her waist. She stirred, shifting back into him without waking. That small movement undid him. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His hand settled against her stomach, pulling her closer. Her body melted into his.

He lay there for a long while, wrapped around her, his body easing into hers like something finally at rest. Gradually his heartbeat slowed, the world reduced to the scent of her hair and the steady, grounding certainty of her breath. And then, finally, Harold let himself sleep.