Morning Light
731 Words
Chapter fifteen
Rain had stopped by the time gray light came through the brick window.
Claire woke first.
She was tucked against him, his arm heavy across her waist, his face pressed into her hair. The blanket had slipped to their hips sometime in the night. The room was cold, but he wasn’t.
She didn’t move. She listened. His breathing was even. No counting. No listening for boots. Just him, asleep.
The cut at his temple had scabbed. She lifted a hand and brushed her thumb over it, light. He made a sound, low and disgruntled, and pulled her closer instead of letting go.
“Morning,” he muttered into her hair. Voice rough from sleep and yesterday.
“Morning,” she said back.
He didn’t open his eyes. “Hip?”
“Better.”
“Liar.”
She huffed a laugh against his forearm. “Slightly better.”
That got his eyes open. Dark. Clear. He looked at her like he was checking the door, the window, and her, in that order.
“You’re still here,” he said.
“I didn’t go anywhere.”
“Good.” He kissed her temple. Not the mouth. Not yet. The temple, right beside the place her fingers had been last night. “Stay.”
She turned in his arms so she could see him. He let her. The blanket fell to his shoulders and she saw the bruises blooming across his ribs, the old scars, the new ones. He didn’t hide.
“Water,” she said, sliding out before he could argue.
The kettle took too long. The apartment stayed cold. She came back with two mugs and sat on the floor by the couch because her hip protested stairs.
He came down to her. No pretense of distance. He took the mug, drank, and then set it aside to pull her into his lap instead.
“Damien,” she protested, half laughing.
“I’m your fifty meters,” he said, matter of fact. “Starts here.”
He tucked the blanket around both of them. His chin rested on top of her head. One hand stayed on her hip, thumb moving in small, absent circles. The other reached for the table.
The brass key was still there, next to his knife.
He picked it up. Held it between them.
“Bank. 7:00,” he said, quiet. “We go. Together.”
“And after?” she asked.
He closed her fingers over the key again. Closed his over hers.
“After, we come back here,” he said. “No Board. No doors between us. Just this.”
He leaned in and kissed her, slow. Morning breath and rain and something steadier than panic. It wasn’t the furious, desperate kiss from the stairwell. It was deliberate. Like he had time to learn her mouth now and planned to use it.
When he pulled back, his forehead stayed against hers.
“I didn’t let go yesterday,” he said again, because he needed her to hear it in daylight too.
“I know,” she said. “You don’t have to keep proving it.”
“I want to.”
She believed him.
They drank cold tea from warm mugs. He didn’t let her stand until she did. He walked her to the bathroom and waited outside the door, knife on the counter where he could see it. When she came out, he was watching the window.
“Any movement?” she asked.
“None,” he said. “For now.”
He turned, and the look on his face softened when he saw her. Not the shield. Just Damien.
“Come here,” he said.
She went. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her between his knees. His hands came up to dry her hair with the towel, slow and careful, like it was part of the vow.
“7:00,” he said again, working the towel through a knot. “We get the proof. We come back. And you sleep without one eye on the door.”
“Promise?”
He set the towel down. Caught her face in both hands.
“Proof,” he said, and kissed her like he meant every word.
Outside, Durban woke up. Inside, the key sat on the table. Unused. Not needed.
Because this time, he didn’t count. He stayed.
- Writer
