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Eventually, what seemed like a lifetime later, the door clicked open.
Nothing was said, but you could practically hear the silent conversation between brothers, Christopher motioning for Alexander to go back to his room, Alexander jerking his chin toward the lump of me beneath the covers.
Feet shuffled, the door clicked, this time locking.
The bed depressed in front of me as Christopher slid in, flicking off the light, gently reaching for me, pausing, waiting to see if there was some resistance, before curling me into him, his arms going tightly around me.
“I’m fine,” I insisted, some primal part of me needed to say, even if it didn’t feel very true.
“Okay,” he agreed, though he clearly didn’t believe me as his hand moved upward, stroking through my hair.
Slowly, I seemed able to be able to separate the two very distinct events in my life. The long passed one, from the more recent one. The division allowed clarity to come through, to let me process what had happened without things getting muddled in my head.
All things considered, it hadn’t been the worst thing that had happened to me. Hell, it might not have even been in the top five. My life had been hard and rough when I was young. It got dangerous as I got older.
Things had happened.
Sometimes they were ugly things.
Sometimes I walked away from them bloodied.
Sometimes I had to be carried away from them.
That was the life I had led.
And with a few deep breaths, I was able to realize that the event back in my room was likely number seven on the list of shit things I had dealt with in my life.
Not great.
But not enough to send me into a bad spiral either.
Sometimes—most times—it was harder, took much longer to sort everything out in my adrenaline-fueled system, my swirling head. And that was with my trained coworkers around me, people who had been through many of their own traumas, who knew how to handle me and mine.
So one had to come to the conclusion that this quick switch back to rational thinking had a hell of a lot to do with the man whose arms were around me, whose warm body was surrounding me, whose heartbeat was slow and steady and right by my ear.
I had never really been a touchy-feely person. With friends, with anyone really. I definitely had never been much of a snuggler. I couldn’t even tell you why. It just never felt like something I wanted. That level of intimacy, I guess.
There was no denying that, in this moment, with this man, it was comforting; it was helping my mind and body work through some shit.
And, well, it felt pretty damn good actually.
I was starting to see what all the fuss was about.
I liked it enough that I was actually putting off telling him I was feeling better because the way his fingers sifted through my hair was almost narcotic. I was pretty sure it would cure all forms of insomnia in a matter of minutes.
Eventually, though, I knew I had to speak, had to let him know I wasn’t traumatized for life, and wasn’t blaming him for the situation. And, well, the man needed to get back to work too, didn’t he? And as someone who had been in many sticky situations, who worked for a company that specialized in them, I fully understood how imperative those first few minutes, or even first few hours, could truly be.
I needed to let him be the boss that he was.
And I needed to stop clinging to him for more reasons than I cared to think about.
“I’m alright,” I told him after sucking in a deep breath, making sure I slipped a little confidence into my voice. “Really,” I added when he snorted. “It didn’t even make the top five,” I added.
“Top five what?” he asked, pulling back far enough to look me in the eye, searching my face.
“Traumatic experiences,” I told him, shrugging.
“You don’t shrug about something like that,” he told me, brows furrowing.
“Why not? It’s true. It’s not a big deal.”
“If that wasn’t top three, Miller, that’s a big deal.”
“Melody,” I told him, feeling the surprise flood my system at hearing myself say that, admit that, share that with him. I didn’t even share that with my closest coworkers, those people who were like family to me. I didn’t share it with the men I slept with. With anyone. At least not willingly.
“What?” he asked, shaking his head a little.
“My name,” I clarified since there was no way to take it back now. And, quite frankly, I didn’t want to. “Melody,” I repeated. “Now you see why I hate it so much,” I told him, trying to add some levity. Even if I was lying. I actually secretly liked the sound of it. Soft and sweet, lyrical. Things people would very rarely say about me, things I maybe sometimes wanted to hear them say.
