The blade was on the nightstand.

Within reach.

Close enough that he could feel its presence without touching it.

Erik had examined it himself the first night she brought it into his orbit—an alloy laced with something rare, something disruptive. Not immune to him, but resistant. A weapon designed with one purpose.

Him.

He lay back against the pillows anyway.

“You keep it there deliberately,” he observed, voice calm in the dim light. “I admire honesty.”

She didn’t hide it.

Didn’t pretend it was decorative.

The air between them held tension—not fear, but awareness. The kind that comes when two powerful forces choose proximity instead of distance.

“You could try,” he continued softly. “You would even come close.”

His gaze flicked to the weapon, then back to her.

“And yet… you haven’t.”

He reached out—not for the blade, but for her wrist—guiding her hand to rest against his chest.

Right over his heart.

“You see?” he murmured. “Trust is far more dangerous than metal.”

He closed his eyes, settling back as if the object capable of ending him were nothing more than background noise.

“Leave it,” he added quietly. “If you intended to use it, I would already be dead.”

Outside, the world still feared him. Still hunted him. Still whispered about contingencies and fail-safes.

Inside this room, he chose vulnerability.

Not because he was reckless.

Because he understood something deeper.

Power was not proven by eliminating every threat.

Sometimes—

It was proven by allowing one to remain… and sleeping anyway.