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I hug myself as the door closes behind Archer. Dad’s words still linger in the back of my mind. Why is he so upset over something he agreed to? Does he not know Archer? Has he not figured out yet that no one says no to him?

A reel of all the times I begged him for release plays in my head on repeat. I begged him. He didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want.

“I’m sorry.” I squeeze my left wrist.

The buzz in my head returns, and this time, I know I can’t swipe a few trinkets to feel better. I need the real thing. Only pain can quiet the chatter. I take ragged breaths and start to count to ten. I make it to five before I dig my fingernails into my skin. I drag them up my arm and then down again. My fingernails split before I break through the old scabs, but I don’t care. I keep at it until a drop of blood smears into my palm. And then I wait for it, the calm.

I’m falling through the ice again. And all I see in the distance is Archer’s beautiful face. His voice is like a warm blanket that blocks out all the light, and even the noise. Of course he found me. He always does. He’s always there when I can’t breathe.

“Paloma.” Archer cups my face, holding my right hand in his. “Jesus. Look at me.”

“What?” I blink tears away to clear my vision. “Don’t touch me.”

“Why not?” His gaze bores into mine.

“Because we’re not supposed to. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” I see the horror in his eyes.

“You can ask me for anything. Except that.” He presses his forehead to mine. “Anything but that.”

“I’m sorry.” I wrap my free arm around his waist and wince when his tuxedo jacket rubs on the tender skin.

“You can explain to me what happened later.” He pulls away. “For now, we need to make sure those cuts don’t get infected. Come on.”

He walks me back to Dad’s room. When I find his bed empty, my heart races. “Archer?”

“He’s getting tests done. He’s fine.” He gestures at the rumpled sheets. “Sit.”

He leaves and comes back with single packets of ointment, band-aids and wraps. A tall, beautiful nurse follows him into the room. Is it just me? Or does he have gorgeous women flocking him everywhere he goes? The nurse smiles at me, pointing at my injuries, but before she can ask if she can take a look, Archer steps in.

“I can take it from here. Thank you.” He dips his head toward the door, takes off his tuxedo jacket and begins to roll up his sleeves.

The nurse blushes, seemingly at a loss for words. She’s not wrong. Archer rolling up his sleeves is a sight to behold. I fight off the images of him entering my old room, looking exactly like this. I can’t be weak with him anymore.

“Thank you.” I smile at the nurse who’s still looking at my husband with a big smile on her face.

When she recovers a handful of seconds later, she shifts her attention to me. “Of course. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.” She nods once, then leaves.

“You ready?” Archer steps into my line of sight, his deep blue gaze trained on me.

“She likes looking at you.” I hate the accusatory tone in my voice, but I continue. “What did you say to her?”

He chuckles. “I didn’t notice her looking.” He braces both hands on either side of my hips. “Jealousy looks good on you, Little Dove.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m not jealous.” I squint at him for a beat then look away.

“My mistake.” A smirk pulls on his lips. “But for the record, I only have eyes for you.”

Time slows to a drip of honey as I watch him carefully lay out the medical supplies on the bedside table. He’s methodical and self-assured the way he moves as if he’s done this a million times before. Being here with him like this, I feel the release I so craved earlier. The chaos in my head subsides, and it feels like coming home and letting go. It feels like waking up to a ray of morning sunlight that sneaks into the bedroom through a small opening in between the curtains. It feels like I can finally let go.

“Give me your hand,” he orders.

My body obeys before my brain has time to consider his words. He takes my hand gently and begins to clean and wrap each fingernail. I study his beautiful profile and the way his full lips part slightly in concentration. How is it possible to be this beautiful? How does he exist?

“You’ve done this before?” I ask. “You don’t seem grossed out by all the blood or ripped scabs.”

“Is that a compliment?” He stops dabbing ointment on the inside of my elbow. When I don’t answer, he laughs. “No.” He looks up at me. “You’re my first.” He continues to work his way down to my wrist.

“Are you mad at me?” I suck in my lower lip.