No one has ever touched me like this. Not once in twenty-one years.
My father's hands brought pain. Fists and open palms and fingers digging into bruises until I learned to stop crying, stop flinching, stop reacting at all.
But this man—this stranger who pulled me out of hell—his hands are different.
They're gentle—almost reverent.
I’m shaken to my very core
He leans down, and I feel the warmth of his breath against my forehead. Then his lips press there, soft as a whisper, and my entire body goes liquid.
A kiss.
It's not even a real kiss—not on the mouth, not anything scandalous—but it's mine, and it's perfect, and I want to cry.
I don't, because I'm still pretending to sleep, but my insides light up like a match struck in the dark.
He pulls back slowly, and I hear him settle into the chair beside the bed. The leather creaks as he shifts his weight. Then...nothing. Just the sound of his breathing, steady and even, like he's keeping watch.
Like he's protecting me.
I let myself drift, just a little, my mind spinning out into fantasy because it's safer than reality.
What if he's kind? What if he keeps being kind?
What if he touches me like that again—soft and careful and like I matter?
What if I get to stay here, in this warm bed, in this quiet room, where no one yells or hits or hurts me?
What if he wants me?
The thought sends a guilty wave of excitement over me, and I'm ashamed of it, but I can't stop it. I've never been wanted—not for anything good. But the way he touched my hand and kissed my forehead...
Maybe this is different.
I fall asleep imagining it. Imagining him. Imagining a world where I'm not just surviving, but living. Where someone looks at me the way he did in that cell—like I'm something worth saving.
I wake screaming.
The nightmare claws its way up from somewhere deep and vicious—my father's face, his fists, the sound of the van doorsslamming shut, the cold concrete under my cheek. I can't breathe. I can't?—
"Polina."
A low, steady voice cuts through the panic.
Arms wrap around me, strong and sure, and suddenly I'm not alone in the dark. I'm pressed against a warm, solid chest, and a hand is stroking my hair, and someone is murmuring, "You're safe. You're safe. I've got you."
I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter, but he doesn't let go. He just holds me tighter, tucking my head under his chin, and rocks me like I'm something fragile.
Like I'm something precious.
"It's okay," he says quietly. "Just a bad dream. You're here. You're with me."
I bury my face in his shirt and sob. I can't help it. Everything I've been holding in for weeks—maybe years—comes pouring out, and he just lets me cry. He doesn't tell me to stop. He doesn't pull away.
He stays.
When the sobs finally slow, I realize he's in the bed with me. Not on top of the covers—under them. He climbed in beside me and wrapped himself around me like a shield, and I don't even know when that happened.
