Shade woke up warm.
Not the normal kind of warm — not blanket warm, not heater warm.
Body warm.
Breathing warm.
Arms around her.
Shade didn't move.
For half a second, her mind tried to protect her.
Dream, it offered quickly.This is a dream.
Shade blinked slowly.
The room was dim, but not dark. Morning light leaked through the curtains in pale strips, softening everything it touched. Her lamp was still on — of course it was. A small golden glow on the nightstand, guarding the corners.
Her bedroom looked exactly like it always did.
Safe.
Familiar.
And yet—
Shade could feel it.
The steady rise and fall behind her.
A chest.
A heartbeat.
Someone breathing like they belonged there.
Shade's throat tightened.
No.
She shifted slightly.
The arms around her tightened in response — not trapping, not forcing.
Just… instinct.
Like whoever was holding her didn't want her to drift away.
Shade's stomach dropped.
She lifted her hand carefully, slowly, and pinched her own wrist hard.
Pain sparked.
Real.
Shade stared at the ceiling, horrified.
It wasn't a dream.
Blaze was actually here.
Blaze was actually in her bed.
Shade's brain started replaying flashes from last night like a broken highlight reel:
Blaze at the door.Shade grabbing her.The hallway blur.The bed.The kisses that tasted like hunger and anger at the same time—
Then—
Nothing.
A hard blank.
Like her mind had slammed a door.
And behind that door was the worst part:
Shade crying.
Shade being held.
Shade breaking.
The memory of it made her chest tighten so hard she could barely breathe.
She shouldn't have let Blaze see.
She shouldn't have—
Blaze shifted behind her.
Shade froze again.
A sleepy breath.
Then a low murmur against her hair.
"Morning," Blaze whispered.
Shade didn't answer.
Because if she did, her voice might expose her.
Blaze didn't seem to mind.
Her hand moved slowly, affectionately, brushing over Shade's hair as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like Shade wasn't dangerous.
Like Shade wasn't fragile.
Like Shade wasn't—
Blaze kissed the top of her head.
Soft.
Barely pressure.
But Shade's entire body reacted like it was an earthquake.
Her eyes burned instantly.
No.
No, no—
Shade hadn't cried in years.
She'd trained herself out of it.
She'd buried it until it stopped existing.
But now—
Tears came anyway.
Silent at first, like her body was testing whether it was allowed.
Shade clenched her jaw, furious at herself.
Blaze didn't speak.
She only tightened her hold a fraction, like she understood exactly what was happening without needing it explained.
Shade's breath hitched.
Her chest shook once.
Then again.
And suddenly it was too late.
Shade turned into Blaze's chest, hiding her face like she could erase this by refusing to be seen.
Her tears soaked fabric.
Muffled, broken little breaths she hated herself for making.
Her fingers gripped Blaze's shirt like it was a lifeline.
Shade couldn't stop.
She didn't know how.
Blaze's arms stayed firm around her, anchoring her like gravity.
One hand in Shade's hair.
The other at her back.
Keeping her here.
Keeping her real.
Blaze's voice came low, calm, like a vow that didn't demand anything.
"You're okay," Blaze murmured.
Shade shook her head, furious.
She couldn't form words.
She couldn't explain that this wasn't okay.
That she wasn't supposed to do this.
That she wasn't supposed to be held while she fell apart.
Blaze's hand stroked through Shade's hair slowly.
Not rushing her.
Not fixing her.
Just staying.
And Shade realized something terrifying:
Blaze wasn't uncomfortable.
Blaze wasn't panicking.
Blaze wasn't backing away like people did when Shade became too much.
Blaze just… held her.
Like Shade could cry and still be wanted.
Shade's breath shuddered again, softer this time.
Her tears slowed slightly.
But her voice finally broke through—small and raw.
"…Don't look at me," Shade whispered.
Blaze didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she kissed Shade's temple.
Then her forehead.
Then said quietly:
"I'm not."
Shade swallowed.
It was a lie.
Blaze was absolutely looking.
But Blaze was looking the way someone looks at a wound:
Not disgusted.
Not scared.
Just… careful.
Blaze's voice lowered again.
"Do you want me to leave?" Blaze asked.
Shade's throat tightened so hard it hurt.
Everything in her screamed to say yes.
Control demanded it.
Dignity demanded it.
Pride demanded it.
But her body—
her stupid, honest body—
pressed deeper into Blaze's chest like it was the only safe thing in the world.
Shade didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
Blaze exhaled softly.
"Okay," Blaze murmured, like she'd heard Shade loud and clear.
Then, as if sealing it:
"I'll stay."
Shade's eyes squeezed shut.
A fresh tear slipped out—this one quieter, heavier.
Because that sentence hurt.
Like healing.
And Shade had never learned how to survive healing.