The implant conversation could've gone better. The knife probably didn't help. Neither did the part where I casually informed her that, one day, she'd be my wife and have my children…
In hindsight, that might've been information that was better revealed gradually instead of me dropping it on her after I attempted to perform a little at-home surgery.
On the plus side, I apologized and she seemed to accept it. Okay. She flipped me off and tried to stab me with a pen, but since she could’ve curled up in a ball in the corner or locked herself in the panic room again, I consider that progress.
The old Haven would've sniffed and flipped her hair and called me an asshole while I smiled and told her that wasn’t very Offering-like.
The current Haven settles for the finger, and you know what?
I'll take it.
Two weeksafter bringing her home, things are slowly getting a little better.
Not perfect. Not even fucking close. My optimism took a hit these last few days. I really thought that, by now, Haven would at least have a couple of spoken words for me, even if it’sfuck you. No.
I thought I wouldn’t have to sedate her more often than not so that she can sleep peacefully through the night. Considering she has nightmares nearly every time she closes her eyes, I have to dosomethingto help her.
She knows about the cameras now. She keeps trying to figure out how many I have and where they are, but I bought the bestmoney can buy. She’ll never find them, and since I only use them to make sure she’s safe when I attempt to give her some semblance of privacy, she eventually accepts that they’re there.
Does that mean she spends a lot of time locked in the bathroom? Yes. Fair enough. I promised that there weren’t any cameras in there, and I meant it. It was an oversight on my part that she wouldn’t instantly turn that into a second sanctuary, but at least she returns to the panic room to sleep.
Or not sleep, as it were.
I have a key. She has no idea that I do, and I plan on keeping it that way. Whenever I pull up the cameras, either on my phone or on my computer, I’m doing it to make sure she’s okay. And when she’s not? I use it as an excuse to join her in the basement.
Most nights I stretch out on the leather couch, being close without crowding her. If the nightmares get too bad, I’ll sneak in and help her sleep, then curl up behind her so that I can stroke her soft hair and breathe in her floral scent and whisper soft promises that I’ll always love her no matter what.
I don’t sleep beside her. The last thing I need is to pass out and find that Haven woke up first, panicked that I might’ve taken advantage of her. It killed me, the way she compared me to those fuckers who took her—especially since she wasn’t wrong. I want her to see me as her hero, not her villain, and I’ll do everything I can to make her as comfortable as possible until she finally believes that.
She’s eating now. There are times she makes me try it first because she doesn’t trust me, but I’ll be the taste-tester for the rest of our lives if it means she’s getting regular meals into her.
She's spending less time locked inside the panic room and more time in the finished basement itself when she isn’t hiding in the bathroom. Yes, she’s still avoiding me when she can. Still watching every move I make like she's waiting for me to grow a second head or jump her or something.
I can’t stay away. Maybe that’s a mistake. Maybe she needs more time to herself to get used to her new reality, but the way I see it, this is exposure therapy. She needs me to be close by so she gets used to me.
At least, that’s how I justify it.
“Sweetheart?”
With a scowl, she looks up at me.
I keep trying out different nicknames for her. ‘Baby’ is a constant in the rotation, mainly because I once overheard her call that fucker Jason Michaels by the pet name. Sure, I threatened to cut his balls off if he didn’t end things with Haven then and there that summer, but despite how quickly I put a stop to her secret fling the moment I found out about it, I’ve been determined to hear her call me her baby. By using it for her, I’m hoping she’ll eventually pick up on it and use it for me in return.
Other than that, the only one that doesn’t get an eye roll or a wrinkled nose or a flinch is ‘sweetheart’. I’m leaning toward that being the keeper, though I’ve got a few more in my back pocket that I plan on trying on for size.
For now, I step out of the kitchenette, holding a snack plate for Haven.
One eyebrow rises. She huffs out a breath, then takes the plate from me as though she doesn’t have any other option.
She doesn’t. I’m going to feed her, and she’s going to eat, and it’s just a lot easier to go along with it.
Today her snack is watermelon. Yesterday it was kiwi. The day before that? Peaches.
To be honest? I'm beginning to suspect she thinks I have a fruit obsession with how often that’s the fresh snack I prepare for her. The truth is a whole simpler than that: I like using a knife to chop the fruit up. Sometimes I can use my pocketknife; for the bigger fruits, like grapefruit and watermelon, I rely on a kitchen knife. Either way, I feel the most like me when I have aknife in my hand, and since I don’t want to frighten Haven any more than I already have, slicing up fruit is the best outlet for me.
Plus, it’s healthy and it has vitamins and shit. It’s good for Haven, easy to digest, and she enjoys it. All wins in my book.
I should’ve known better. I have to cajole Haven, almost plead with her to eat the snacks in addition to her breakfast, lunch, and dinner. That she ate two of the three slices of watermelon without a fight… I should’ve known she was up to something.
