The encounter in the grocery store left Maëlys rattled, the scent of Eliott and the memory of his intense gaze clinging to her. She spent the rest of the day in a state of agitated unease, the subtle hum of his presence in her mind growing louder. Her carefully maintained solitude felt less like a sanctuary and more like a fragile cage, constantly threatened by the magnetic pull of him.
That night, the nightmares returned with a vengeance. They weren't just flashes now, but a violent kaleidoscope of twisted metal, blinding headlights, and screams that ripped through her subconscious. She saw fragments of a face – not her own, not Eliott's – contorted in terror, and felt an agonizing sense of loss so profound it stole her breath. She thrashed, tangled in her sweat-soaked sheets, a guttural cry tearing from her throat as she shot upright in bed.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird desperate to escape. The room was spinning, the shadows on the walls morphing into grotesque shapes. Panic, raw and visceral, clawed at her throat. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers trembling, not even knowing why she was reaching for it. Then, before she could truly process the action, her thumb hovered over a name she hadn't consciously saved, a number she shouldn't have known: Eliott.
The ring echoed in the silent house, each tone a hammer blow against her racing pulse. She almost hung up, almost gave in to the shame of her vulnerability. But then, a deep, resonant voice answered.
"Maëlys?" Eliott's voice was low, laced with an immediate concern that cut through her fear like a knife. He wasn't surprised she was calling, not even in the dead of night.
"I... I can't breathe," she gasped, the words tumbling out, desperate and unbidden. "It's... it's happening again."
A brief pause, then, "Stay right there. I'm coming." The line went dead.
She didn't question it. She didn't question how he knew where she lived, or why he was willing to come. All she knew was that a lifeline had been thrown, and she clung to it. She sat huddled on her bed, pulling her knees to her chest, shivering despite the warmth of the room.
Minutes later, a soft rap echoed through the house. Maëlys scrambled to the door, fumbling with the lock. Eliott stood on her porch, his dark hair a little dishevelled, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, his tattooed chest bare. He looked like a phantom, carved from the night itself, but his eyes were sharp, immediately assessing her state.
Without a word, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The air in the room suddenly felt less suffocating, charged with his presence. He crossed the distance to her in two long strides, his gaze never leaving her face. Maëlys felt a strange sense of surrender.
"You're freezing," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. His large hands, rough and warm, cupped her face, tilting her chin up. His thumbs gently wiped away the tear tracks on her cheeks. His touch was firm, yet incredibly tender, a stark contrast to the dark intensity he usually exuded.
She leaned into his touch, an instinctive response she couldn't control. Her body, still trembling from the nightmare, sought his warmth. He lowered his hands, letting them rest on her shoulders, then slowly pulled her into his chest. This wasn't the demanding embrace of the beach. This was different. Softer, yet just as powerful.
Maëlys's arms, as if on their own accord, wrapped around his waist, clinging to him. She buried her face against his warm skin, inhaling the familiar scent of him – smoke, a hint of something metallic from the ink, and a deeper, musky scent that was uniquely Eliott. He didn't speak, didn't demand explanations. He simply held her, one hand stroking her hair, the other rubbing slow, comforting circles on her back.
The frantic pounding in her chest began to slow, the cold dread receding, replaced by a strange, overwhelming sense of calm. Held in his arms, surrounded by his strength, the terrifying fragments of her past seemed to quiet, just for a moment. It was an intimacy unlike any she had known, a raw, non-sexual connection forged in the crucible of her fear. He was her anchor in the storm, a dangerous, forbidden comfort. And as she finally felt the fragile edges of sleep pulling her under, nestled against his solid form, Maëlys knew, with terrifying clarity, that she was losing herself to him, one stolen moment of solace at a time.