Night did not scare Hilary anymore.
Darkness did.
The difference was subtle—but cruel.
Night was time.
Darkness was absence.
She lay awake beside Gerard, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing. The sheets were cool, crisp, expensive. Hotel linen. Familiar. Safe.
Yet her fingers hovered inches above his arm.
Not touching.
Hesitating.
Once, touch had been effortless.
Automatic.
Unquestioned.
Now it felt like crossing a line she no longer knew how to see.
Gerard shifted slightly, sensing her wakefulness even without sight.
"You're still awake," he said softly.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," she replied.
Silence returned, thick but not uncomfortable.
He didn't rush her.
That was what made it unbearable.
"Gerard," she whispered.
"I'm here."
She turned toward his voice. Toward warmth. Toward the faint cedar-and-amber scent she had memorized like scripture.
"Can I ask you something… selfish?"
He smiled faintly in the dark.
"You've earned selfish."
Her throat tightened.
"When you look at me," she asked, "what do you see?"
He didn't answer immediately.
She hated that she noticed.
"I see my wife," he said finally.
"That's not fair," she murmured. "That's an answer designed to protect me."
He turned fully toward her now.
"Then tell me what you're afraid of hearing."
She swallowed.
"That you see… loss."
"That you see something cracked."
"That you see someone you need to be careful with."
Her breath shook.
"That you see me like glass."
He lifted his hand slowly, deliberately, giving her time to pull away.
She didn't.
His fingers brushed her wrist.
Barely there.
"I see someone learning how to exist without certainty," he said quietly. "And doing it with more courage than anyone I've ever known."
She laughed weakly.
"I'm terrified."
"I know."
"I don't even know if I'm touching you right now," she confessed. "I don't know if this is your arm, or the sheet, or nothing at all."
He took her hand fully, placing it against his chest.
"Here," he said. "This is me."
Her palm flattened.
Warmth.
Pressure.
The steady rhythm beneath.
She exhaled sharply.
"I know this," she whispered. "This I know."
"Then stay there."
She did.
Minutes passed.
Her breathing slowly matched his.
"I miss seeing you," she admitted. "Not your face. Just… knowing where you are without fear."
"I'm still here," he said.
"Yes," she replied. "But I need to learn you again."
He shifted closer.
"Then learn me."
She froze.
"Like this?" she asked.
"Yes."
Her fingers trembled as they moved—hesitant, exploratory.
She traced the outline of his shoulder.
The slope of muscle.
The familiar tension that lived there when he carried too much responsibility.
"You're tense," she said softly.
He huffed a quiet laugh.
"You always notice that."
"I don't need eyes for it."
She slid her hand lower, following instinct instead of memory.
Every touch felt amplified.
Dangerous.
Intimate.
"I'm afraid," she whispered again.
"Of what?"
"That if I let myself feel this… I'll forget how much I'm losing."
He leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers.
"Hilary," he said gently, "what if this isn't loss?"
Her breath caught.
"What if this is simply a different way of knowing me?"
Tears slid silently down her cheeks.
She pressed her face against his neck, inhaling deeply.
Cedar.
Warm skin.
A faint trace of soap.
You.
Her arms wrapped around him, slow but certain.
He stiffened for half a second—surprised—then relaxed fully into her embrace.
She felt it.
The release.
The surrender.
"You smell the same," she murmured. "Even when I'm scared."
"I make sure of it."
She pulled back slightly.
"You shouldn't have to anchor yourself so I don't drift."
He kissed her hair.
"I'm not anchoring," he said. "I'm choosing to stay."
Her fingers curled into his shirt.
"Touch me," she whispered suddenly.
He stilled.
"Tell me where," he asked carefully.
"Anywhere," she replied. "Just—don't let the dark decide for me."
He cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks gently.
She leaned into the touch instantly.
Her body recognized him even when her mind questioned.
"Is this okay?" he murmured.
"Yes."
"Tell me if it stops being okay."
"I will."
His lips brushed her temple.
Not a kiss.
A promise.
She shivered.
"You're shaking," he noticed.
"Because I trust you," she said.
He exhaled slowly.
That did it.
His arms wrapped around her, firm but reverent, pulling her fully against him.
She felt his heartbeat quicken.
"You don't feel fragile," he said quietly. "You feel… real."
Her chest tightened.
"Stay," she whispered.
"I am."
"No," she corrected. "Stay like this. Don't step ahead of me. Don't carry me."
"I won't."
She tilted her face upward, searching with her lips this time.
He waited.
She found him.
The kiss was slow.
Exploratory.
Uncertain.
And achingly intimate.
She pulled back, breathless.
"I can't see you," she said again.
"I know."
"But I know when you smile," she continued. "Your breath changes."
He smiled unconsciously.
She felt it.
"There," she whispered. "That."
He laughed softly, emotion thick in his voice.
"You're learning my tells."
"Like you learned mine."
They lay back down, tangled together, her head resting over his heart.
No urgency.
No demand.
Just presence.
Minutes passed.
She traced idle patterns on his chest.
"Gerard?"
"Yes."
"If one day I wake up and can't recognize even your scent…"
He tensed—but didn't pull away.
"Then I'll speak," he said. "I'll touch. I'll remind you."
"And if I push you away?"
"I'll wait."
Her eyes burned.
"You'd really live like this?"
"I already am."
She laughed quietly through tears.
"You're insane."
"For you?" he replied. "Gladly."
She turned her face into his chest again, exhaustion finally settling in.
Tonight, she didn't feel broken.
She felt chosen.
Outside the room, the city continued its relentless perfection.
Inside—
Love learned how to exist without light.
And somewhere in the building, a pair of observant eyes watched the quiet room number with interest.
Bianca didn't need to see them.
She could smell fear.
And she smiled.