Breathless ✓

Twelve ✔

The door creaks open, and we step into the cozy living room, escaping the crisp night air. The soft glow of the lamp illuminates the space, casting a warm ambiance. We exchange tired smiles, the camaraderie of the day settling between us.

"Movie night?" Christian suggests, a playful glint in his eyes.

I nod, grateful for the prospect of unwinding. "Sounds perfect. Let's pick something easy."

We settle on the couch, cushions providing a haven for fatigued bodies. The flickering light of the TV paints shadows on the walls as the movie begins. The plot unfolds, but our attention wavers into a realm of candid conversation.

Laughter punctuates the dialogue, and the shared moments become the true highlight. Anecdotes from the day, snippets of our lives, and the occasional teasing remark create a narrative that weaves seamlessly with the film.

As the night progresses, the initial weariness retreats in the face of genuine connection. The movie serves as a backdrop to a mosaic of shared stories, forming an unspoken bond.

Somewhere along the way, the soothing rhythm of dialogue lulls me into a sense of comfort. The movie continues, but my eyelids grow heavy. Unbeknownst to me, my lower body drapes over Christian in a casual sprawl.

Christian glances down, a smile playing on his lips. He adjusts slightly to accommodate the unexpected intrusion, and we find ourselves in a silent agreement that the living room is a space of shared repose.

As the movie draws to a close, the room is filled with the soft hum of its credits. Christian gently disentangles himself, careful not to disturb my slumber. He covers me with a light throw blanket, a gesture of quiet consideration.

The soft glow of morning seeps through the curtains, gradually replacing the artificial light of the television. As my eyes flutter open, I find myself in a state of blissful confusion. The remnants of the movie night mingle with the quiet reality of the morning, and I blink away the drowsiness.

The living room, once a stage for animated conversation and shared laughter, is now a canvas of serenity. I notice the throw blanket gently draped over me, a testament to Christian's considerate gesture. My gaze shifts to the other end of the couch, where Christian rests in a peaceful slumber.

His chest rises and falls with the rhythm of deep sleep, and a stray lock of hair falls over his forehead. In this tranquil moment, the lines of tension that often etch his features seem to dissolve, revealing the vulnerability that lies beneath.

As I shift slightly, I realize my legs are still draped over his lap. A soft smile plays on my lips as I watch him, appreciating the unexpected comfort of our impromptu arrangement. The living room, once a theater for storytelling, now becomes a haven of quiet connection.

I decide not to disturb Christian's sleep, choosing instead to savor the peaceful interlude. The events of the past days, with their whirlwind of emotions and unexpected turns, have carved a space for this simple yet profound moment.

The morning continues to unfold outside, casting a gentle glow on the room. I close my eyes again, absorbing the tranquility and finding solace in the shared quietude.The soft murmur of the morning persists, and I can't help but marvel at the peaceful tableau that surrounds us. Christian remains in his serene repose, unaware of my contemplation. The sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the room and gently highlighting the details of his features.

As I carefully extricate my legs from their resting place on his lap, I catch a glimpse of the movie's end credits still rolling on the screen. It seems we talked through most of the film, rendering it a mere backdrop to our shared conversations. The ambient glow from the television bathes the room in a soft, cinematic hue.

I decide to let Christian continue his rest, rising quietly from the couch. Padding into the kitchen, I find solace in the familiar routine of making a cup of coffee. The rich aroma fills the air, and I let the comforting warmth seep into my senses.

Returning to the living room, I find Christian stirring from his sleep. His eyes blink open, momentarily adjusting to the ambient light. There's a brief disorientation, and then a gentle smile forms on his lips as he takes in the scene.

"Morning," he offers, his voice a soft timbre that matches the hushed tranquility of the room.

"Good morning," I reply, handing him a cup of coffee. We exchange a quiet nod, both appreciating the shared understanding that often accompanies shared spaces.

"About that night," I start, referring to the night terror i had one night ago. "I wanted to tell you about that."

His eyes widened, "You don't need to." 

"I want to," I reply, with a small smile trying to reassure him. I take a deep breath, feeling a sense of vulnerability that I haven't shared before. The memories, long suppressed, now surface as I gaze into Christian's warm, understanding eyes.

"When I was twelve, I was in foster care," I begin, my voice carrying the weight of the past. "The other kids there were never kind. They used to bully me, make fun of me. One day, as some sick joke, they tried to drown me in a bathtub."

The room falls into a heavy silence, the gravity of my words lingering. Christian's expression shifts, a mixture of concern and empathy etched across his features.

"I fought and screamed for help," I continue, my voice steady but revealing the underlying pain.

 "I thrashed and kicked. All of the water was going inside my mouth and my lungs were full of water. I couldn't breathe. The more I tried to the more it got worse. I hated the feeling. Finally I stopped struggling. I didn't have the power to. It was making it more difficult. Especially when it was such a small place. But the weird thing is I felt really peaceful.." I continued not giving him a chance to speak. 

"My adoptive parents and the caretakers came inside they handled the boys while my adoptive dad performed CPR and managed to save me." I finished. "Sometimes it's hard to run from memories like that."

Christian's eyes reflect a profound understanding, and his hand reaches out to gently rest on mine. In that simple gesture, I find a connection that transcends the spoken words. It's as if he understands the depth of my struggle without requiring further explanation.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that, Victoria," he says softly, his voice a soothing balm to the wounds of the past. "You're safe now. No one can hurt you here."

His words carry a sincerity that resonates deep within me.

...