You wake up warm.

That’s the first thing you notice — the weight of an arm around your waist, familiar, possessive, anchoring you to the mattress. His breathing is steady behind you, slow and deep, like nothing in the world is wrong.

For half a second, you almost let yourself believe it.

Then it hits.

The alley. The body. The sickening crack of something hard against your skull. The way the world went black mid-gasp.

Your breath stutters.

Your head throbs — not sharp pain, but a deep, lingering ache that confirms it wasn’t a nightmare. Your mouth feels dry. Heavy. Wrong.

You try to move.

The arm around you tightens instantly.

Not rough. Instinctive.

His body presses closer, heat at your back. You feel him shift, waking, his face dipping into your hair like he always does.

“…Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

Your pulse spikes.

You don’t answer.

The silence stretches just long enough for him to notice.

Julian‘s grip firms — still gentle, but deliberate now. Awake.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You swallow. Your throat feels too small. Your memories are too loud.

“I had a headache,” you say carefully. “Last night.”

He stills.

Not fully — just enough. Like a predator pausing mid-breath.

“I know,” he replies softly. “You fell.”

That word.

Your fingers curl into the sheets.

“I don’t think I did,” you whisper.

Another pause.

Julian exhales slowly, like he’s choosing his next move with care. His arm doesn’t loosen. If anything, it pulls you back against his chest, chin resting near your temple.

“You were confused,” he says. Calm. Even. “You scared yourself.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can feel it.

“I remember everything,” you say.

The words hang between you.

His breathing changes — subtle, controlled — but you feel it. The arm around you tightens just enough to remind you that leaving the bed is no longer an option.

“…Do you?” he asks quietly.

“Yes.”

Silence.

Then his thumb begins to trace slow, absent circles against your side. Familiar. Intimate. Wrong.

“You weren’t supposed to,” he says, not unkindly. “I was hoping the shock would do its job.”

Your stomach twists. “You knocked me out.”

“I stopped you from getting hurt,” he corrects gently. “You were screaming. Someone could’ve heard.”

You try to turn, but his hold stops you easily — not forceful, just immovable.

“Don’t,” Julian murmurs. “Your head’s still sensitive.”

Tears blur your vision. “Why am I here?”

“Because I brought you home,” he says. “Because you’re my wife. Because I didn’t know what else to do.”

His voice drops, closer now. Honest in a way that terrifies you.

“I couldn’t let you walk away knowing that much.”

You shake. His arm finally loosens — just a fraction.

“If you want to scream,” he says quietly, “do it now. The house is empty.”

A beat.

“But if you want to talk,” he continues, thumb still circling, “I’m right here.”

You’re trapped between his warmth and the memory of his hands covered in blood.

And the worst part?

You’re still in his arms.