Summary: A woman scarred by the past finds herself drawn back into the world she once left behind, where old bonds, buried pain, and an unshakable love may be the key to her healing, and her return.
Notes:⚠️Author's Note: Warning some may be triggered by this. Just be mindful.
One-Shot
The night air was heavy when Sicheng's phone lit up with Yao's name, the sound of her broken sobs reaching him before he could even speak. Her voice was shaking so badly it was almost incoherent, but he caught the desperate plea for help and an address. No questions, no hesitation, he was already moving, keys in hand. Three years had passed since he had last seen her in person, three years since he had let his own weakness and her choice keep him silent. But he had never stopped loving her. Not once. And hearing her like this ripped something raw and dangerous open inside him.
The drive to the outskirts of Shenzhen was a blur of headlights and pounding blood in his ears. His mind was a storm of memories and fury, and every second felt like an eternity. The house she had given him the address to was a modest but well-kept one. He killed the engine and stepped out, senses immediately sharpening. The stillness was wrong. Too quiet. He strode to the door, knocked sharply, waited, nothing. A flicker of unease surged through him. Testing the handle, he found it unlocked.
The moment he stepped inside, the air felt colder. He moved with controlled precision, hand going to the small of his back to draw the gun he always carried. Years away from the competitive stage had not dulled the instincts that had once made him a dangerous man in a very different arena. The living room was dim, a single lamp on the far side casting long shadows across the walls. Then he saw her.
Yao was huddled in the corner, phone still clutched in one trembling hand, her white top smeared with blood, her fingers red-stained. Her hair was a tangled mess, strands yanked loose as if from violent hands. A bruise was already darkening on her cheek, the corner of her mouth split and bleeding. Her eyes, once a bright, fierce opal, were now a lifeless gray, dulled with shock and pain. The sight of her like this nearly snapped the leash on his self-control.
He swept the room with a predator's efficiency before his gaze landed on the body. Jian Yang lay sprawled on the floor, a letter opener buried deep in his throat, blood pooling beneath him. The metallic tang was thick in the air. Sicheng took a slow, steadying breath before holstering his gun and crouching down beside Yao, his voice low, coaxing but edged with an undercurrent of steel.
"Yao," he said, his tone pulling her gaze to him. "Tell me what happened."
Her breath hitched, shoulders shaking as the words tumbled out between sobs. "Things… things have been bad for a while. Jian Yang… he's been hitting me. I thought I could handle it but…" She swallowed hard, her voice cracking. "He lost it tonight when he found out I ran into your mother in the city… she invited me for tea next week. He wouldn't stop, Sicheng… he wouldn't stop…" Her voice broke completely then. "I… I grabbed the letter opener and swung." Her entire body shook, guilt and terror twisting her expression.
Sicheng's jaw tightened as a cold, murderous rage bled through his veins, though none of it touched his voice when he spoke again. "You're safe now," he told her, quietly but with absolute conviction. His gaze flicked to Jian Yang's lifeless form and back to her battered face. "And I swear to you, no one will ever touch you again." He reached out slowly, giving her the chance to recoil if she needed to, but she didn't, she collapsed against him, her sobs muffled against his chest. Wrapping an arm around her, he held her as though anchoring her to something solid, already calculating their next moves. For the first time in three years, she was back in his arms, but this was not how he had ever wanted it. And yet, he knew one thing for certain. He would not fail her again.
Sicheng kept one arm locked around Yao, feeling every tremor ripple through her slight frame as he slid his phone from his pocket with the other. His voice, when he spoke, was low and deliberate, stripped of any hesitation. "Mother," he said, the single word carrying the weight of their unspoken understanding. "I need a clean-up crew. Now."
There was a pause, then the steel in Lan's voice cut through, sharp and immediate. "What happened?"
Sicheng's gaze flicked to the body again, his tone still level but with an undercurrent of cold fury. "Jian Yang attacked her…he attacked Yao. She called me. It's bad. She defended herself. He's not getting back up." He heard the sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a low, furious exhale.
"I knew it," Lan hissed. "I knew something was wrong with that girl today. She looked exhausted, brittle, she tried to hide it, but I saw it in her eyes. That's why I invited her for tea. Damn it." There was a rustle of movement, the clipped sound of heels on hardwood. "Yue and your father are already on their way to you," she continued, her voice turning even colder, the kind of chill that could freeze the marrow in a man's bones. "Keep her calm. Don't let her out of your sight. I'll handle the rest."
"Understood," Sicheng replied, ending the call without another word. He shifted just enough to cradle Yao's face in one hand, brushing a thumb lightly against the uninjured side of her cheek. "Stay here. Don't move," he murmured, before pulling the phone back up and scrolling to a number few ever called.
It only rang once. "Boss," the deep voice on the other end greeted.
"I need a trail," Sicheng said without preamble, his tone the clipped, commanding one that had once made entire teams freeze mid-match. "Jian Yang was seen leaving. Make it look like he ran, took off to another country after hurting his wife. Cash withdrawals, a plane ticket to anywhere in Southeast Asia, scattered witnesses who saw him fleeing in a rush. No trace back to her."
There was no hesitation. "On it. How deep?"
"As if he's never coming back. Burn every bridge behind him." Sicheng's eyes hardened. "This way the courts will give her an annulment. No trial, no scandal she has to stand through. He's just… gone."
A low whistle came from the other end. "Consider it done."
Sicheng hung up, the house still cloaked in tense silence save for Yao's uneven breaths. He looked at her, truly looked, and felt that same vow settle like iron in his chest. Three years ago, he'd cursed himself for being too weak to take the chance when she was his. Tonight, weakness wasn't an option. Tonight, he would scorch the earth if it meant keeping her safe.
The low hum of an approaching engine reached Sicheng before the headlights swept across the front of the house. He already knew who it was; Yue drove like he lived, fast, deliberate, and with no patience for obstacles. A second set of lights followed, larger, steadier, the SUV that belonged to their father.
Sicheng had moved Yao from the corner to the couch, wrapping her in his jacket, the heavy black fabric swallowing her smaller frame. She sat curled into herself, fingers clinging to the lapel as if holding on to something that might keep her from shattering completely. Her eyes were still dull, her shoulders trembling beneath the weight of shock and exhaustion.
The front door opened without a knock, and Yue stepped in like a storm barely contained. His gaze scanned the room in one sweeping arc, landing first on his older brother, then shifting sharply to the woman on the couch. The sight stopped him cold for half a heartbeat.
Then his expression darkened into something dangerous.
Yue's fists clenched at his sides, jaw tightening until the muscle jumped. He'd seen Yao laugh until she cried, seen her fierce on the stage, fearless behind a keyboard. But this, seeing her bruised, wrapped in Sicheng's jacket like it was the only shield she had left, ignited a fury in him that was visceral. This was the girl he had once secretly hoped to call sister-in-law, the one he'd teased relentlessly because he'd thought she was untouchable, too quick-witted and stubborn for anyone to hurt. And here she was, broken in a way he didn't know how to fix.
"What the hell happened?" Yue's voice was low, but there was no mistaking the fire in it.
Sicheng didn't answer right away. His father was stepping inside, his towering presence bringing with it an almost oppressive stillness. He took in the room the way a general would survey a battlefield, calm, assessing, with eyes that missed nothing. His gaze slid from the body on the floor to Yao's small figure on the couch, then to Sicheng. "We're handling it," Sicheng said finally, his tone even, deliberate. "Mother knows. Crew's on their way."
"Handling it?" Yue stepped closer, anger sharpening his voice. "She's sitting here looking like she just walked out of a war zone, Cheng. This is more than 'handling it'—"
Sicheng's eyes cut to his younger brother, the look enough to silence him for the moment. "If you want to help, you'll keep your head clear. She's been through enough without you losing your temper in front of her."
Yue's glare didn't fade, but he dropped his gaze to Yao, the anger shifting into something heavier. Quietly, he moved to crouch beside the couch, his voice softening in a way that only those who truly cared could manage. "You're safe now. He's never going to touch you again."
Yao's lips trembled, but she didn't speak. She only tightened her grip on Sicheng's jacket.
The muffled sound of tires crunching on gravel drew Sicheng's attention. Through the front window, a black van slid to a stop. The clean-up crew had arrived. Four men in dark clothing stepped out, moving with precision, their presence filling the house with an efficient, unspoken tension.
"Yue, with me," Sicheng ordered. "Father, stay with her." He led his brother toward Jian Yang's body, his voice dropping to that cool, commanding register that made even dangerous men obey without question. "We make it look like he ran. No trace of her touching him. You do exactly as I say."
The crew moved in, methodical and silent, already setting to work erasing every detail that didn't fit the story they were crafting. And as they worked, Sicheng kept one eye on the couch where his father now sat beside Yao, a silent sentinel, the other on his brother, who for all his fury was moving exactly as instructed. Because tonight wasn't about vengeance, not yet. Tonight was about protection. And Sicheng would ensure nothing and no one could ever harm her again.
The work was finished with the same precision it had begun. Jian Yang's body was gone, his blood scrubbed from the floor, the faint metallic tang in the air replaced with the sterile scent of chemical clean. Phones had been doctored, surveillance wiped, and the carefully crafted trail of a man fleeing in disgrace was already being planted across bank systems and transit logs. By the time the crew slipped out into the night, Jian Yang's ghost was already vanishing into the shadows of a fabricated escape.
Sicheng closed the door behind them, his hand lingering on the handle for a moment before he turned back to her. Yao was still on the couch, small and fragile in his jacket, her posture defensive and curled inward like she was trying to make herself as invisible as possible. His father remained a silent figure beside her, Yue leaning against the wall with his arms folded tight, his anger kept on a short leash.
Crossing the room, Sicheng lowered himself into a crouch in front of her, his large frame drawing her eyes up to him. His voice when he spoke was a low, steady rumble, each word deliberate. "Where has Jinyang been… every time he's raised a hand to you?"
For a heartbeat, she didn't answer. Her gaze flickered past him, unfocused, before settling on his face. The words came soft, but they were threaded with an old, tired bitterness. "She washed her hands of me… the first time Jian Yang hit me. I ran to her and Ai Jia, thinking, hoping, they would help me. But she's married to Ai Jia, and he protested that Jian Yang would never hurt me. She… for some reason decided to believe him over me." Her voice thinned, shaking as she continued. "Even after Jian Yang… almost killed Da Bing by kicking him." Her eyes glossed over, her breath catching on the memory. "I sent him to live with my cousin so he'd be safe. And then… I just shut down. Not even my parents believed me."
Sicheng's jaw tightened until the muscles along it ached. Inside, a storm was building, old, relentless, and violent, but his voice stayed calm, because she needed calm right now, not more fury. He reached forward, his hands warm and solid as they closed gently over hers. "You're not going back there," he said, the quiet finality in his tone carrying more weight than any shouted promise. "Not ever again." He rose smoothly, his hand still wrapped around hers, and turned to Yue and their father. "I'm taking her to my place. She'll be safe there."
Lu Cing, his father nodded once in grim approval.
Yue straightened from the wall, the question clear in his eyes even before he spoke. "Your condo?"
Sicheng's expression didn't shift. "I own the building. Top floor's mine. Yue, you're directly below me with Pang. Floor under that is split, Lao K and Lao Mao on one side, Ming and Rui on the other. No one gets in without my say-so. It's secure." Without giving anyone a chance to argue, he guided Yao to her feet, the oversized jacket still draped over her like a shield. She moved stiffly, every step small, but she didn't pull away. Outside, the night was deep and quiet, the black sedan waiting in the driveway already warmed and ready to go. He opened the passenger door for her, steadying her as she climbed in, then shut it gently before circling to the driver's side. As the engine rumbled to life, his hand reached briefly over to rest over hers again, a silent anchor in the dark.
They were leaving the past behind on that quiet street. But in his mind, there was only one thought, if anyone ever tried to hurt her again, they would never live to regret it.
The hum of the Maserati's engine was the only sound as they left the outskirts of Shenzhen behind. Yao's head had tilted against the passenger-side window within minutes, the strain of the night dragging her under into a restless sleep. Tear tracks still glistened faintly on her cheeks, and even in sleep, her brow was furrowed as though the nightmares clung to her.
Sicheng's grip on the steering wheel was white-knuckled, his gaze locked on the road but his mind running red. Rage burned cold and deep in his chest, not the quick, reckless kind, but the kind that planned, calculated, and dismantled enemies piece by piece. Every single person who had known, who had turned their back, who had dared raise a hand or a word against her, would pay in ways that would ruin them beyond repair. He didn't care how long it took.
The city lights blurred past until he turned into the private underground garage of his building. Yue's car pulled in moments later, sliding into the space beside him. As soon as the Maserati was in park, Sicheng stepped out and moved to her side, opening the door. She didn't stir when he slipped an arm under her knees and another behind her back, lifting her effortlessly. His jaw clenched hard at how light she felt in his arms, too light. She had lost weight, more than she should have, and the thought of what that meant only fueled the cold storm inside him.
Yue rounded the car, the soft click of locks following as he secured the Maserati. Without a word, they moved together toward the elevator, Sicheng keeping her held close against him. She shifted faintly in her sleep, her cheek pressing against his chest as though seeking the heat and steadiness there, and he adjusted his hold just enough to keep her sheltered.
The elevator ride was silent, thick with unspoken tension. Yue stood to his right, watching the numbers climb, his expression tight, controlled. Sicheng didn't look at him, he didn't need to. They both knew that this silence wasn't peace; it was the stillness before something broke.
The doors slid open onto the top floor, the familiar view of his private corridor stretching ahead. Yue stepped out first, fishing his keys from his pocket, and unlocked the heavy front door. But the moment the door swung inward, Sicheng froze.
They were all there. Pang leaning against the wall, his easygoing nature stripped away and replaced with something hard. Lao K with his arms crossed, face shadowed and unreadable. Lao Mao, his jaw tight, hands curled into loose fists. Rui standing near the kitchen with a stillness that came only when he was holding back sharp words. And in the center of them, Ming, tall, immovable, and radiating a cold, dangerous calm that made the air heavier.
Every one of them was staring at Yao.
Ming was the one who spoke, his voice low and dark, the tone cutting through the quiet like a blade. "Yue called me and I called the others." It wasn't a question. It wasn't even a demand for an explanation. It was a statement, a warning, that told Sicheng the man already knew enough to be angry, and that whatever story he had been given was enough to make all of them furious.
Sicheng didn't pause for questions or for the heavy stares following him down the hall. He carried Yao straight into his bedroom, the door closing behind them with a muted click that cut off the tension from the others outside.
The room was warm, quiet, the soft light from the bedside lamp casting a gentle glow. He set her carefully on the edge of the bed, crouching to pull off her shoes before straightening again. For a moment, he just looked at her, at the faint shadows under her eyes, the way her fingers twitched faintly in her sleep, the remnants of dried tears on her cheeks. Then he moved to the adjoining bathroom without a word.
The sound of running water filled the space as he wet a washcloth under the warm stream, wringing it out until it was just damp. When he returned, he sat on the bed beside her, his touch careful as he began to wipe away the streaks of blood on her hands and arms, slow strokes that erased the night's violence from her skin. He worked in silence, jaw set, his focus absolute.
When her skin was clean, he set the cloth aside and moved to her torn blouse. He worked the buttons open with steady hands, making sure not to wake her, his movements gentle despite the storm raging under his calm exterior. Pulling the ruined fabric away revealed more bruising along her ribs and shoulder, marks that made his breath deepen and his grip tighten for a heartbeat before he forced himself to stay composed.
He crossed to his dresser and retrieved one of his clean black T-shirts, soft, oversized, smelling faintly of his cologne. He eased it over her head, guiding her arms through the sleeves, the shirt falling to her mid-thigh. It swallowed her completely, hiding every trace of the damage except for the fading marks on her face.
Satisfied that she would not wake still wearing the blood and violence of the night, he tucked the blankets lightly over her. She stirred once, sighing softly, and he stayed just long enough to ensure her breathing settled into an even rhythm again.
Cracking the door open, he stepped out into the living room. The shift in the air was immediate, every head turned toward him, the weight of their stares pressing in. He ignored them at first, walking to the fireplace in the far corner. In his hand, he still held Yao's blood-soaked blouse. Without hesitation, he dropped it into the cold hearth, struck a match, and tossed it in. The fabric caught quickly, flames curling up through the ruined cloth, the sharp scent of burning cotton mixing with the faint copper tang that still lingered.
They all inhaled sharply at the sight, but none of them spoke. Sicheng turned then, his gaze sweeping across them, steady and unflinching.
"She called me tonight," he began, his voice low but carrying enough force to still the room completely. "She was crying, terrified. Gave me her address, and I drove straight there. The door was unlocked. I found her curled in a corner, covered in blood, shaking so badly she could barely hold her phone." His eyes narrowed, the memory still fresh. "Her clothes were torn. Bruise on her cheek, lip split. Jian Yang was on the floor with a letter opener in his throat. He's been hitting her for a long time. Tonight he snapped when he found out she'd run into my mother and accepted an invitation for tea. He wouldn't stop." There was a flicker of something darker in his expression now, a warning of what lay under the surface. "She told me she swung the letter opener to make him stop. And she told me…" He paused, his gaze hardening. "She told me that the first time he hit her, she went to Jinyang and Ai Jia. Ai Jia said Jian Yang would never hurt her, and Jinyang chose to believe him over her. Even after he nearly killed Da Bing by kicking him. She sent the cat to her cousin to keep him safe. Her parents didn't believe her either."
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. No one looked away from him, and none of them missed the promise in his voice when he added, "He's gone now. As far as the world will know, he ran. And I will make sure no one who failed her walks away untouched."
The room stayed silent for a beat longer, the air thick with the kind of rage that had no place to go yet.
Ming's expression was grim, his jaw tight as though he was already calculating what he could do with the information.
Lao Mao's arms were folded so tightly across his chest his knuckles were pale.
Pang, for once, wasn't fidgeting, he just stared at Sicheng, his usual easy demeanor gone.
Rui's eyes were sharp, his mind clearly moving in that calm, logistical way that meant he was already thinking about contingencies.
Sicheng's gaze swept over them all, weighing them, but when it landed on Lao K, it stayed there. "Lao K," he said, his tone like a locked command, low and absolute. "Use your skills. I want the address of her cousin. The one keeping Da Bing."
Lao K blinked once, already reaching for his phone. "Da Bing?"
"Her Maine Coon," Sicheng replied without softening. "The stubborn, loyal, judgmental one. Jian Yang nearly killed him, and she sent him to her cousin to keep him safe. She will need him back. Now."
Lao K didn't argue. His fingers were already moving over his phone, tapping into resources most people would never know existed. "I'll have it before sunrise," he said, glancing up with a flicker of something that almost looked like respect. "And I'll make sure there's no trace of us retrieving him."
Sicheng gave a short nod, the barest hint of approval in his expression. "Good. I want him here within forty-eight hours." His voice dropped, a final edge cutting through. "She's been stripped of enough things in her life. That cat isn't staying away from her one day longer than it has to."
Pang shifted, speaking for the first time. "You're bringing him here? With all of us in the building?"
"Yes," Sicheng answered, unbothered. "She's going to need every piece of her life that's worth keeping. And she's not going to feel alone for one second while she's under this roof."
Ming's gaze met his, something dangerous passing between them. "You know we'll back you," he said, the words quiet but laced with a certainty that didn't need to be shouted.
Sicheng didn't respond to that directly. He turned toward the hallway instead, casting one last glance at the bedroom door. The thought of her waking without Da Bing there tightened something in his chest, and he knew, deep down, that getting that cat back to her wasn't just about comfort. It was about giving her a living, breathing reminder that she was still worth protecting, still worth fighting for.
The hours had stretched into the quiet weight of late night, the kind where even the city beyond the windows seemed to hold its breath. The team was gathered in the living room, the low light from a single lamp casting long shadows over their faces. No one had suggested leaving. No one had even touched their phones for more than a few minutes. They sat, each lost in their own thoughts, the tension hanging heavy in the air.
Lao K was quietly tapping away on his laptop, sifting through digital pathways that would lead him to Yao's cousin. Pang had slouched deep into an armchair, but his eyes kept drifting to the hallway. Lao Mao leaned forward on his knees, elbows braced, his gaze fixed on the floor as though if he looked hard enough, he could burn away the anger building inside him. Ming sat perfectly still, his expression unreadable but his presence loud in the silence. Rui was pacing slowly by the far wall, methodical, like he was keeping count of each step.
It was the scream that shattered the stillness.
It was high, raw, and full of such terror that it scraped the air like broken glass. The sound ripped down the hallway from Sicheng's bedroom, cutting straight into the marrow of everyone present.
Before anyone could even process it, Sicheng was moving. One moment he was seated in the armchair nearest the hallway, the next he was gone, a blur of controlled speed and fury. The chair rocked back slightly from the force of him standing, his steps fast and heavy as he covered the length of the hallway in seconds.
The others were on their feet now, hearts pounding from the shock of the sound. They had seen Sicheng angry before, on stage, off stage, when pushed, but this was different. The force in his movement wasn't just anger. It was possession, a territorial snap, as though something had dared to touch what was his.
The door to his bedroom banged open against the wall.
Inside, Yao was tangled in the blankets, her body curled in on itself, fists clenching the sheets. Her face was twisted in panic, breath coming in short, shallow gasps as she cried out again, words breaking into fragments—pleas, denials, the sounds of someone still trapped in the nightmare. Tears streaked down her cheeks, soaking into the pillow.
Sicheng crossed the space to her in two long strides, his hands immediately on her shoulders, not shaking, but firm enough to ground her. "Yao. Yao—wake up. You're safe," he said, his voice deep, low, a rumble meant to cut through the fog of fear.
Her eyes flew open, wild and unfocused for a heartbeat before locking on his face. Recognition hit, and the panic in her breathing began to slow, though her chest still rose and fell too fast. She clung to him then, her fingers gripping the front of his shirt so tightly the fabric pulled.
The others had gathered at the door, but none stepped inside. Even Ming, who could stare down anyone without flinching, kept his distance, his eyes narrowed as he read the scene. This wasn't a space they could intrude on. This was Sicheng's to handle.
He eased her upright, tucking her against him so her face was hidden in the curve of his neck. "It's over," he murmured, his hand running slowly down her back in long, steady passes. "He's gone. He's never coming back. No one is ever going to hurt you again." Her breathing steadied bit by bit, the tension in her frame slowly giving way to exhaustion. She didn't let go of him, though, not even when her trembling started to subside. He stayed there as long as it took, his body a wall between her and everything else. Without looking up, he said over his shoulder, voice still low but carrying a clear warning. "Close the door."
Rui moved first, pulling it shut quietly, leaving them alone again. In the living room, the team returned to their seats, the silence heavier now, not because they didn't want to speak, but because they understood just how deep this ran.
The nightmare had left her skin clammy, her breaths uneven, her grip still anchored in the fabric of his shirt like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go. Sicheng stayed there for a long moment, his palm steady against the back of her head, letting her feel the solid rhythm of his breathing until hers began to match it. Only when the trembling dulled to small shivers did he shift slightly, not to pull away, but to guide her weight with care.
"Come on," he murmured, his voice pitched low, the kind of tone meant to coax someone out of the dark without startling them. He reached over with one arm, snagging the glass from his nightstand and the bottle of water beside it. Pouring a small amount, he held the glass near her lips. "Just a little. You need to drink."
Her fingers were slow to loosen from his shirt, but she obeyed, taking the glass in both hands, though they were still unsteady. He kept one hand under hers to steady the water as she sipped. The cool liquid must have cut through the dryness in her throat, because she took a second sip before setting it back down with a faint clink against the wood. She didn't meet his eyes immediately. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the folds of the blanket bunched in her lap, her voice thin and almost hesitant when it came. "It's always the same."
Sicheng leaned slightly forward, forearms braced on his knees, attention locked on her. "Tell me," he said quietly, not as a command, but as a space she could step into if she wanted.
She swallowed, drawing the blanket tighter around her. "At first, they were just flashes. The way his face would change when he got angry. The sound of his footsteps coming toward me." Her voice faltered, but she forced herself on. "Then they… grew. I'd see his hand coming at me before I even woke up. Hear him shouting, feel….." She broke off, a shiver cutting through her. "Sometimes it's worse in the dream than it was when it happened. I can't move, can't breathe. And then… I wake up like tonight, thinking it's still happening."
Sicheng's jaw tightened at that, but he didn't interrupt. He let the silence stretch just long enough for her to feel she'd been heard before speaking again. "That ends here," he said finally, his voice low but carrying that unshakable certainty that had once made entire stadiums go silent. "Every time you wake up like this, I'll be here. You're not alone in that room anymore. Not in this building. Not in your life. And I'll make sure no one who left you to face it alone sleeps easily again."
Her eyes flickered up at him then, faintly wet again but steadier than they had been minutes ago. There was no argument in her expression, just the weary, cautious acceptance of someone who didn't yet know how to believe it fully, but wanted to.
He reached forward and tugged the blanket up to her shoulders, tucking it in around her like he was locking the world out. "Sleep," he murmured, settling back in the chair beside the bed. "I'll be right here when you wake."
Her gaze lingered on him for another few seconds before her lashes lowered, the exhaustion pulling her under again, this time without the sharp edge of panic in her breathing.