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“Outlander.” She tries again and I play it, no questions asked.

She leans backward, getting comfortable on the couch, placing a pillow on her lap, her hand long gone from my thigh and I find myself missing it.

Her head rests close to where my arm is lying and I have the overwhelming urge to reach out, twirl one of her golden strands around my finger.

I resist, for exactly thirty minutes.

Then I give in. I extend my arm, wrapping my finger around a long strand of her hair. If she notices, she doesn’t say anything. Her attention remains on the screen, and mine never leaves her.

We sit there for hours and the quiet calms all my demons, the raging storm inside me so dull I can barely feel its presence.

She mouths the dialogue along with the characters through the first three episodes. By the fourth, she’s stifling yawns.

By the fifth, she’s blinking a little too slowly, stubbornly fighting sleep.

By the sixth, her head keeps dipping forward and before she can strain her neck, I carefully guide her into my lap.

She’s barely awake now, her weight warm against me. But I notice it, a drop of tear falling down her eyes as her head rests on my chest.

I run my hand slowly up and down her back, each gentle stroke coaxing another shaky breath from her. The only sounds in the room are the television and the steady rhythm of our hearts.

Another tear slips down her cheek and I catch it with my thumb before it can fall, my gaze lingering on the tiny droplet. Like a fucking pervert, I brush my thumb against my lips.

I’m a greedy man and I’ll take whatever she’s ready to give me.

I know she’s hurting. I wish I could hold her tighter and promise that no one will ever make her cry again. That I’ll hunt down every last one of her fears and burythem with the men who created them but I’m reluctant to let her see my ugly.

Not yet, not when she can freak out and leave me again.

She needs time and I am a patient man.

She loses fight against sleep by seventh episode and I wait for another thirty minutes before I lift her up in my arms.

Turning the TV off, I climb the stairs, moving towards my bedroom, taking steady steps and lay her down on my bed, she only moans once before sleep pulls her under again just as quickly.

I just spent eight hours watching her, I could do another eight or twenty—no. Forever is the number.

“Elara.” I whisper. “Baby?” I try again and when she doesn’t stir, I quietly retrieve the cooling gel before returning to her bedside.

Gently, I take one of her hands. It’s worse than I thought. Carefully, I lift the entire thing off until she’s only in her bra and sweatpants.

My gaze lands on her skin and my head starts pounding, there’s so much of it—the red.

Her stomach is mottled with angry patches of red, the skin rubbed raw in places until it looks tender enough to sting with the lightest touch.

I had escaped human traffickers, my mama always had scars and wounds but none like these.

Because these are self-inflicted.

I-I don’t know what to do with myself and can only stare at her skin in silence.

Fuck, baby.

“I’m sorry, malyshka.” I whisper.

With slow, careful strokes, I spread the cooling gel over every patch of angry skin, terrified of hurting her but somehow, she sleeps through it.

Once I’m done, I wipe away the last traces of her makeup and gently brush the loose strands of hair away from her face, but they keep falling back.