-Treasure. (TW)
Elias always did as he pleased. When he told Mark to give me a week off duty, I half expected it to be some kind of trick. Yet Mark simply nodded and from that point forward I was left to myself. A strange kind of freedom settled over me, though it was a freedom built inside gilded walls.
The past few days had been nothing but an endless loop of eating until I was tired, collapsing on the bed until I drifted into a shallow sleep, waking up to PlayStation matches I barely cared to win, and pretending to read books I never turned past the first chapter of. Then I would sleep again, repeat the cycle, and realize that my body was heavier each morning. Elias hadn't come near me once. And that, somehow, was the part that gnawed at me.
I didn't know if I had gotten used to him, or if the ease with which he pulled back unsettled me more than his presence. The absence of him pressed like silence in a room where you know the walls are listening.
I was slouched on the sofa in the gaming room when the door slid open without warning. He walked in.
The glow of the screen cut across him in clean slashes of light, catching along the slope of his jaw, the dark fall of his hair, the depth of his gaze. He looked younger than he should, not a man nearing forty but something cut sharper, like time itself hadn't been allowed to touch him. His features held that balance of elegance and severity that drew eyes whether he wanted them or not. The hoodie he wore sat open over a plain shirt, but the way he carried himself made even something simple look deliberate.
He moved slowly, unhurried steps across the carpet, then lowered himself beside me on the sofa. The room was dim except for the giant screen casting pale colors against our faces.
His hand lifted, the first instinct as always, reaching for my hair. I swerved sharply away before his fingers grazed me. The air between us snapped tight.
Elias sighed, tipping his head back against the cushion. His chest rose with a long inhale, then dropped with a heavy exhale. His voice came softer than I expected. "Are you upset about something?"
I shook my head quickly. "No. I'm fine."
"Then what's wrong?" His gaze slid toward me, studying, patient but with an edge that always made me feel dissected.
"Nothing," I said, picking up the controller and pressing a button that didn't matter. "Want to play a game with me?"
"No." His refusal was quiet, absolute. "Not in the mood."
I turned toward him, the glow of the television catching half his face in light, the other half drowned in shadow. "Why haven't you been in the mood lately?"
His brow flicked up. "What do you mean?"
I pulled my lips into a crooked little expression, one corner twisting, the face of someone caught between a smirk and unease. "I'm just wondering why you haven't been kissing me lately or…" I trailed off, the sentence unfinished but hanging thick in the air.
"You want me to kiss you?" he asked, his tone unreadable.
"No, it's not that," I muttered quickly, heat climbing into my face. "I'm just confused why you won't touch me anymore."
His eyes glinted faintly in the half-dark. "Well, I just tried touching you, and you swerved away. You won't even tell me what's wrong."
"Oh, no. It's not like that," I rushed. I shifted the controller from one hand to the other, restless. "It's just… my hair. Look—I have a problem with people touching my hair. It's been so long I don't even remember why, but it unsettles me. Makes me feel like shit."
He sat with that, then nodded once, the motion small but deliberate. "You should have told me this earlier. Is it a past trauma of some sort?"
I let out a long breath, somewhere between resignation and frustration. My shoulders sagged. "I don't know. What even counts as trauma? What could be classified as that?"
His gaze softened, though not enough to let go of its weight. "Trauma is what happens when something wounds you, and the wound never closes. Sometimes it's obvious—a cut so deep it bleeds for years. Other times it's quieter, hidden, an old bruise that aches whenever someone presses it. It doesn't have to be violence. It doesn't have to be a tragedy people write about. It can be the small moments that keep burning inside your skin no matter how many years pass."
His words lingered in the dim air, heavy and strangely tender. I stared at the screen, the menu music looping endlessly, but none of it reached me. My chest felt hollow, like someone had opened a window inside and the draft hadn't stopped since.
I swallowed hard. "Then maybe it is trauma. I don't remember when it started, but I know that every time someone's hand goes there, I want to crawl out of my own skin. Except once. When I was a kid. Devon cut my hair once. It didn't hurt then."
The silence that followed was thick. Elias's expression didn't shift much, but something flickered across it—a note I couldn't catch before it vanished.
The controller slipped from my hand onto my lap. The hum of the console filled the void I couldn't.
"Are you still yearning for Devon?" Elias's question cut through the hum of the console, soft but aimed like a knife.
I scoffed, too quick, too sharp. "No. I was just sharing a memory with you."
He nodded once, slowly, as though turning the words over in his mouth before spitting them back. "So only Devon is allowed to touch your hair, but I'm not?"
My chest tightened. "It's not like that. Elias, please—you know it's not like that. You asked me about something I didn't understand, so I asked you about it. I was only giving you more information, so maybe you could tell me more about what I'm going through, that's all."
He studied me with that quiet stillness that always left me flailing. "Fine," he said at last, his tone even, almost indifferent. "I'll pretend this is what this is all about."
My hands curled into fists against my thighs. It was exhausting, always having to defend myself, to explain and re-explain as though every word had to be sharpened into a shield. I'd never had to do this with anyone before. With Elias, it was as if every breath had to be accounted for.
"Can I try touching your hair?" he asked after a pause, his voice calm, careful. "Can you trust me just this once?"
I glanced at him, my throat tight. "But I trust you anyway."
"Then prove it."
The words landed like a command wrapped in silk. My pulse quickened, a low thrum in my ears. I thought about it—about whether letting him do this might drag something up from the fog, some reason my skin bristled each time fingers reached near my head. Maybe if I faced it, the ghost would loosen. Or maybe it wouldn't feel as bad this time. Maybe.
I lowered my head slowly, as though offering it up to an altar. My breathing had already gone uneven by the time his hand settled gently on my crown. His fingers spread lightly, his touch cautious, brushing through strands with deceptive tenderness.
"Does it feel bad?" he asked softly.
I shook my head. "No."
The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. Every nerve in my scalp screamed, my chest squeezed like it was caving in. It felt terrible, like my skin was being peeled back with every stroke.
And then he yanked.
His hand fisted in my hair, pulling sharply, forcing my head up. My body locked. Heat pricked behind my eyes. My breath spiked, uneven, shallow, dragging too quick in and out of my chest.
"Do you remember anything?" His voice was calm, steady, as if he were conducting a test rather than holding me in a vice.
My vision blurred. Something cracked in my head, a memory flooding in like water forcing its way through splintered wood. Hands grabbing my hair again and again, my body yanked, smaller than I am now, powerless. And then, like a mirror turned inward, I saw myself, younger, my own hand tangled in someone else's hair, someone so small, so young, a child. The memory wasn't full, just flashes, broken and jagged, but it seared me from the inside.
I forced my breathing to steady, dragged air down into my lungs until I could swallow the panic, pressing it into my ribs where it couldn't claw out. The tremor in my hands didn't stop.
"I want you to sleep with me," I said, my voice breaking low, hoarse from the weight of it. I swallowed again, forcing the words out whole. "Here. Right now."
The admission sat heavy in the dark room, heavier than anything else I could have asked for. It wasn't desire, not exactly. It was something deeper, an instinct for closeness, for erasing the cold hand of memory with the weight of a body beside mine.
The controller was still in my lap, the game looping endlessly on the screen, but none of that mattered. What mattered was the thundering inside me, the pull between my need for distance and my hunger for something that would stop me from drowning.
Elias's grip loosened slowly, his hand sliding down from my hair. He looked at me in that patient, deliberate way of his, and for once, I couldn't read what he was about to do.
Elias didn't speak at first. He just looked at me, his eyes lingering as though measuring how serious I was, or maybe how fragile. Then he moved, slow and certain, lowering himself onto the sofa with me. His hand pressed lightly to my shoulder, guiding me down until my back met the cushions.
The room was dark except for the shifting colors of the screen. They flickered across his face as he leaned over me, painting his jawline in fragments of blue and red, a man caught between shadows and light. His breath touched mine before his lips did, steady and sure. When he kissed me, it wasn't rushed, not the roughness I'd half expected after the pull of my hair—it was measured, careful, as though he wanted me pliant, to anchor me, to remind me that I'd asked for this.
The scent of his skin, faint cologne mingled with warmth, pushed into me. His weight hovered above, not crushing, but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him through his shirt. His lips moved against mine with deliberate patience, coaxing more than taking. My chest rose too fast, each breath short, broken, my body struggling to regulate itself after what had just torn through my head.
His hand left my shoulder and slid to the side of my face. I flinched when his fingers brushed near my hairline, but he adjusted instantly, cupping my jaw instead, thumb pressing lightly beneath my cheekbone. That small correction made it harder to hate him, and harder to hate myself for wanting this.
The hum of the console, the faint vibration of the controller slipping off my lap and onto the carpet, the muted glow of the screen—everything else blurred. All I felt was his mouth pressing down on mine, slow and consuming, each kiss tethering me tighter to the sofa, to the present, to him.
When he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice carried the softness of smoke. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
I nodded, the word tangled in my throat. My eyes burned, not from the memory now, but from the relief of being pulled away from it, even for a moment. I wanted to tell him that I didn't care if it was selfish, that right now I just needed him to make it heavier than my head, heavier than the ghosts clawing up through me.
Instead, I lifted my chin, closing the gap again. His mouth met mine with a firmer press, his hand slipping to my chest, the warmth of his palm grounding me.
I hated how much I needed it. I hated how much it worked.
Elias kissed me again, firmer this time, guiding me back against the sofa as if he was laying me into place. His body hovered over mine, his weight pressing down just enough to remind me of how small the distance had become. His hand slid down from my chest, tracing the edge of my ribs through the thin fabric of my shirt, deliberate, unhurried, as though he wanted to learn me by touch alone.
I could feel my breath quicken against his mouth, every inhale shallow, every exhale catching at the base of my throat. The heat of him seeped into me. I didn't know whether to cling or push away, so I did neither. I let him move, let him tilt his head, let him consume the air between us with those long, measured kisses that tasted of patience and ownership at once.
His fingers brushed under my shirt, the warmth of his skin against my stomach making me tense before I forced myself to let go of the stiffness. He felt the resistance, I knew he did, but he didn't stop. Instead, he pressed softer, smoothing his palm across me, circling as if coaxing my body into loosening. My pulse thudded hard beneath the cage of my chest, every beat echoing in my ears like it was trying to break through.
I turned my face slightly, drawing in a shaky breath, and he caught my jaw with his lips, kissing along the line until he found my mouth again. "Don't run from me," he murmured against my lips, not a demand but something quieter, a plea wrapped in velvet.
My hands had been clenched tight at my sides, nails pressing half-moons into my palms. I let one hand rise, hesitant, resting against his shoulder. The muscle under my fingers was taut, alive with heat. He shifted, lowering his weight more firmly, his thigh sliding against mine, the press of him growing harder, more intent.
The screen flickered across us, throwing quick bursts of color, like the room itself was shifting with each heartbeat. The game music looped endlessly, a careless soundtrack to something I couldn't categorize—comfort or captivity, desire or desperation.
When his hand slid further up, brushing over my chest, I gasped against his mouth. It was too much, too fast, yet my body betrayed me, arching slightly into the touch. He smiled against the kiss, a soft hum vibrating into me, as though pleased with my surrender.
"Stay here with me," I whispered, the words spilling before I could shape them. It wasn't just the sofa, it wasn't just this room. It was the plea I couldn't silence. Stay here so I don't slip under. Stay here so I don't have to remember.
His answer came as another kiss, deeper now, his tongue slipping against mine, drawing me further in until I forgot how to breathe properly. My chest burned with the need for air, but the burn was better than the cold hollowness that waited when I was alone.
I hated how easily I folded under him, how much my body craved the anchor even when my head screamed at me to keep distance. His hand threaded down to my hip, pulling me closer into the line of him, and I let him, because stopping him meant being left with silence again, and silence was worse than this.
The warmth of Elias' mouth claimed mine, no hesitation, no preamble—just heat and pressure, kiss after kiss drawn longer, deeper, until breath was no longer something I remembered needing. His weight settled onto me with purpose, heavy and real, the push of his thigh between mine effortless as it parted me. I let him. My body answered him before I had the clarity to question it, knees falling open, a tremble riding up from spine to scalp as his hand moved from my jaw to my throat in a slow, claiming glide. His fingers rested there, curled loosely, not squeezing but surrounding, and the sensation was enough to make my eyes flutter. It felt like surrender. It felt like a leash hidden beneath affection.
He kissed me harder. His tongue parted my lips like it owned them, claiming the space between us without apology, and I kissed back with everything I had, because falling behind meant losing him in that moment, and I couldn't bear the distance. His other hand found the hem of my shirt and slipped beneath it, palm dragging over bare skin, each inch of contact lighting up like a flare. I arched instinctively when his hand cupped my chest, the brush of his thumb across my nipple making my breath catch in my throat.
"Elias…" I breathed his name like a warning, though I didn't know who it was for. My voice sounded undone—like something was already breaking in me.
His mouth barely left mine. "Shh," he whispered, quiet and patient, as if soothing a trembling animal while pulling it deeper into the snare.
He moved lower, lips trailing down my jaw, the rough stubble of his chin leaving tiny shocks in his wake, rasping along the sensitive skin of my neck. His teeth grazed, caught, then bit, sharp and fast, followed by the cool wet balm of his tongue. I groaned, traitorous and loud, hips tilting into his body of their own accord. I couldn't hide anything from him like this. My desire was carved across every movement.
His hand kept traveling, slipping beneath my waistband. I gasped the moment his fingers curled around me—flesh to flesh, no barriers left—and the jolt of sensation shot through my belly like fire. "Fuck—" The word ripped out of me as my hips jerked upward, chasing the heat of his hand.
He didn't rush. Each stroke was maddeningly slow, deliberate, coaxing instead of demanding, his grip warm and perfect, palm firm, thumb dragging just right. My chest lifted with every breath, lungs straining against the need for more. I barely noticed the still-lit television across the room, but its glow danced across Elias' shoulders, sharp in contrast to the soft shadows moving over his skin, the forgotten controller on the floor emitting a low, aimless hum.
"You like this," he murmured at my ear, a velvet rasp, voice low and cruelly calm, as though my body hadn't already given him every answer.
I swallowed hard, one hand twisted in the cushion beside me, the other clawing weakly at the fabric of his shirt. I wanted to say no. I wanted to lie. But I couldn't.
His mouth moved down my chest, tracing the bone and muscle with lips and tongue, pausing only to catch skin between his teeth. He pulled my shirt higher and higher with each pass until my arms lifted on instinct, offering myself to him. The shirt peeled away and vanished somewhere behind us. The moment my skin was bared, he claimed me again, mouth closing over my nipple, sucking slow and deep until my back arched helplessly.
I grabbed his shoulders—clung to them—unsure whether I was grounding myself or begging him not to stop. My pants were next, the waistband tugged loose, his fingers slipping under the last barrier, and then I was naked, fully exposed beneath him. My heart slammed against my ribs as I met his gaze, and he looked at me like I was already his, like this was inevitable.
Then he lowered his head, and the first sweep of his tongue along my cock shattered any attempt at composure. My head tipped back, teeth finding my bottom lip, a helpless "Ah—" spilling out before I could stop it. He sucked me in slow, lips stretching, tongue dragging heat from the underside, and I could barely breathe, much less think. His hand stroked what his mouth didn't take, wrist turning just enough to make every pass perfect. My hips lifted, instinctive and needy, but he pushed my thighs down with both hands, pinning me to the cushions without breaking pace.
My voice had dissolved into breath and sound. Instead, my hand found his hair, fingers threading through, pulling without realizing—tight, desperate. And then the panic rose, a surge of cold under the heat, muscle memory and shame, the instinct to retreat. I forced my grip to loosen, dragging my touch down to his neck, clinging in a softer way.
He hummed in response—pleased, smug—and took me deeper. His mouth was wet heat and pressure, perfect rhythm, the faint suction of each pull leaving me unstrung. I cried out, wordless, raw, my voice tumbling out in broken fragments as he worked me with obscene patience. My release came like a snapped string—sharp, sudden, unstoppable. I bucked once, shuddered, voice catching in my throat as he drank it down, swallowing everything like he wanted it, like he needed to make sure it didn't escape.
He lifted his head slowly, mouth still glistening, eyes dark and unreadable in the flicker of the screen. I was panting, chest heaving, skin damp, the world too bright and too narrow at once. I thought he'd stop. I thought maybe that would be enough.
He kissed me—deep, demanding—pressing his tongue past my lips so I could taste myself on him. The humiliation of it curled into something hotter in my stomach, and I moaned against his mouth, letting him take, letting him lead. His hand slid down my thigh again, fingers strong as they pulled my leg aside, spreading me wide beneath him. I felt the weight of his cock against me, hard and insistent through the fabric of his pants, pressing close to where I was still raw and exposed.
"Say it," he whispered, voice low against my lips.
My chest ached. My throat was tight. My mouth opened before I could stop it. "Stay with me."
He kissed me harder at that, lips bruising, hips grinding against mine until I whimpered into his mouth. The sound of his belt unfastening—metal clinking, leather sliding—cut through everything. Then the warm line of his cock against me, bare and thick, the weight of it making my breath hitch. He adjusted, one hand on my thigh, the other steadying himself as he pressed forward. He didn't stop. Didn't slow. Just watched me for a moment, the muscles in his jaw tight, breath still heavy against my skin. Then, with a quiet shift of weight, he sat back on his heels, straddling my thighs. The air hit the places his body had warmed and I felt the loss like a cold slap. But my eyes were locked on his hands—on the slow, deliberate way he reached for the hem of his shirt.
He peeled it off in a single, fluid motion, lifting it over his head and tossing it aside without care. The lines of his chest emerged like sculpture under moonlight—lean, defined, the kind of build that spoke of quiet strength more than vanity. The glow of the screen flickered across his skin in pulses of pale blue and orange, dancing over his collarbones, the sharp cut of his shoulders.
I watched everything.
He pushed his pants down his hips and they slipped easily, revealing black briefs that clung tight to him, the outline of his cock straining against the fabric. My pulse thundered at the sight. Then even that was gone, peeled away, and he stood for just a breathless second—bare, unguarded, beautiful in a way that hurt to look at.
He wasn't just hard—he was thick, veined, the kind of size that made my mouth go dry with a mixture of anticipation and unease. And he didn't give me time to second guess. He lowered himself back over me, skin against skin, every inch of him hot and solid and real, the weight of his cock pressing against my thigh as he kissed me again, hungry and open.
His mouth found mine, tongue sweeping deep, and I tasted his heat, his breath, the hint of myself still lingering there. One hand traced down my leg, gripping behind my knee, dragging it up around his waist as his hips rolled forward, grinding slow between my thighs until I whimpered into his mouth.
"Feel that?" he murmured, voice low, dragging the thick head of his cock along the cleft of my ass, slicking himself with the precum already spilling from him. "You're going to take every inch."
The blunt head found my entrance. I tensed all over, pulse pounding in my throat, and his mouth brushed my neck, murmuring something low and soothing, though the words didn't land. Then he began to push in.
The stretch was slow, overwhelming. I gasped, breath coming in stutters as his cock filled me inch by inch, the pressure sharp, nearly unbearable at first. My body shook, slick with sweat, fists clenched tight at my sides. His hand moved to my chest again, fingers splayed over my heart, grounding me, holding me still. It burned—but it was real, and Elias held me through every second of it, his body pressing deeper until he was fully inside, his hips flush with mine.
I trembled, breath coming in sharp, shallow gulps. The pain ebbed into heat, the stretch a thick fullness that made me feel occupied in a way nothing else ever had. He didn't move at first. Just held me there, mouth against my skin, our chests rising and falling together.
Then he began to thrust—slow at first, each push purposeful, each withdrawal dragging against every nerve-ending. The rhythm built like a tide, slow waves growing heavier, rolling through me until my hips lifted to meet him, needing it, needing him.
I moaned—long and open and loud. "Elias…"
He fucked me like he meant to tear the whole room down. Every thrust jolted the couch beneath us, the frame groaning, cushions shoved askew, slipping under my back with each slam of his hips. There was nowhere to brace—no headboard, no mattress to sink into—just the narrow depth of the sofa and the solid weight of his body holding me there, legs hooked over his shoulders, thighs burning.
He was deep, fucking impossibly deep. His hands were locked around my wrists, pinned to the armrest above my head, grip tight enough to bruise. He leaned in, body stretched over mine, sweat dripping off his jaw and splattering my collarbone, hips hammering forward in a rhythm that bordered on vicious.
"Jesus," I bit out, voice raw, chest heaving. "Don't stop."
"Wasn't planning to." His mouth was at my ear, breath hot, his voice steady in a way his body wasn't—he was shaking with effort now, every thrust harder than the last, like he needed to feel the impact, to hear the slap of our bodies as proof.
The cushions slid again and he shoved me back into place with one rough push of his palm against my chest, the other hand still fisted around my wrists. I grunted, back arching, jaw slack as he drilled in, pace relentless. My body took it, legs wide, open, held there by the angle and his force, by how deep he was inside me.
I couldn't speak. I could barely breathe. All I could do was hang on, muscles twitching, throat tight, the wet sound of him fucking into me filling the space between our gasps.
His gaze burned through me. He watched everything—watched my mouth fall open, watched my stomach clench with every stroke, watched me tremble as he angled in and hit just right, over and over again until I was cursing and shaking beneath him.
"You feel that?" he said, quieter this time. "Feel how deep I am?"
I nodded, helplessly, my words gone, lost somewhere between the stretch and the rhythm and the sheer pressure of his body crashing into mine. I could only stare up at him, wide-eyed, wrecked, as he leaned down to kiss me—messy, teeth clashing, no space to breathe before he shoved back in again, full force.
My hands jerked against his grip. Useless. He wasn't letting go. He wanted every part of me pinned, taken, kept exactly where he wanted. His pace was brutal now, driving, like he was going to fuck the shape of himself into me.
"Don't you fucking move," he growled, and I didn't. Couldn't. My spine arched when he slammed in again, so hard it knocked the breath straight out of me.
Pleasure burned up from my gut, too fast, too much. My body was shaking, voice gone to nothing but air and the occasional ragged curse as he kept going, kept fucking, held me through it with one hand around my wrists and the other digging into my hip to anchor me, to keep me in place as he took everything I had to give—and then more.
When he finally came, it was with a guttural groan, hips jerking as he spilled inside me, the warmth flooding deep. He collapsed against me, arms bracketing my sides, breath ghosting over my throat. I clung to him, too gone to speak, too undone to think. His weight grounded me, heavy and real, and I lay there, still shaking, still open, still trying to remember where I ended and he began.
He didn't move. Didn't let me drift. His hand found mine again in the silence, fingers curling slow.
And for once, the quiet didn't feel empty.
The room was quiet again, except for the hum of the console and the faint drip of sweat sliding down my temple. The air smelled of us—warm skin, salt, something heavier that clung to the leather cushions beneath us.
Elias had stretched out across the sofa, his body taking it fully, one arm folded behind his head. I found myself lying half across him, my cheek pressed against the rise of his chest, the slow, steady thud of his heart an anchor I hadn't realized I was searching for. My arm lay draped over his ribs, my legs tangled carelessly against his.
I should have moved. I should have pulled away, covered myself, put distance back where it belonged. But I stayed, because the silence felt safer like this, my body pressed to something solid instead of left adrift in the fog of my own head.
His hand brushed lazily along my back, fingers tracing idle lines against damp skin. For a while, he didn't speak. I thought maybe he'd slipped into that half-sleep that comes after release, but then his voice broke the quiet, low and unguarded.
"You know," he said slowly, "for all the noise in our lives… we're both very lonely people."
The words caught me off guard. Sincere. Bare. Not polished for effect, not sharpened into strategy. Just truth, raw and heavy.
I lifted my head slightly, enough to see his face in the dim flicker of the screen. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, his mouth drawn in a line that wasn't quite a smile.
"Lonely?" I echoed, my voice rough, still cracked from everything that had passed.
He nodded once, almost imperceptibly. "You keep people at arm's length. I push them away. Different methods, same result." His hand paused on my back, pressed flat for a moment, as though anchoring me there. "And here we are. Two people who don't know how to belong to anyone, but we're lying here anyway."
My throat tightened. I wanted to argue, to deny it, to push him back into the role he always played—the man in control, the one I could blame for pressing too close. But his words were too clean, too simple. And they stung because they were true.
I lowered my head again, resting against his chest. His heartbeat filled my ear, steady, unbothered. "I didn't ask to be this way," I said quietly. "It just happened."
"Neither did I," he replied. His voice had gone softer now, like it was drifting somewhere farther away. "But maybe… maybe it doesn't have to stay that way."
I breathed in, slow and shaky, letting the warmth of his chest rise against my cheek. His hand moved again, tracing my spine, slower this time, almost tender.
The thought came unwanted, heavy as lead: how dangerous it was to feel safe here.
And yet, I closed my eyes, let myself sink into the weight of him, into the strange comfort of knowing that for tonight, at least, neither of us had to be alone.