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He nodded, his eyes already heavy with exhaustion. I turned off the light and quietly left the room, closing the door behind me. L

eaning against the wall, I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart.

Tonight had changed everything. Michael was no longer just a stranger or a responsibility.

He was someone I cared about deeply, someone I wanted to protect and get to know.

And as I stood there in the quiet hallway, I knew I would do whatever it took to keep him safe and by my side.

CHAPTER FIVE

MICHAEL

I turnedone more time in the bed and sighed, realizing sleep would never come.

It wasn't the bed's fault. It was too big and too...comfortable. I'd been sleeping on a cold concrete floor for five years.

The contrast was jarring, and despite the soft sheets and plush mattress, I couldn't relax.

Thoughts raced through my mind. First of all, I thought of my dad. Doyle had handed me his cellphone during the ride, asking me if I wanted to call anyone.

I’d been too overwhelmed by everything that had happened, so I only shook my head.

Doyle was incredibly patient and told me I could ask whenever I was ready. Was I guilty for not contacting my dad immediately after my rescue?

Maybe just a little bit, but I figured one more day couldn't hurt, especially if he'd probably written me off as dead.

I rolled over again, staring at the ceiling. My thoughts shifted to the events of the day, to the chaos of the battle, to Doyle's reassuring presence.

His touch, his voice—it had all felt so real. But what if it wasn't?

What if this was all a dream, and I'd wake up back in my cage? The fear gnawed at me, making it impossible to find any semblance of peace.

I tried counting sheep. I tried deep breathing. I even tried replaying Doyle's soothing words in my mind.

Nothing worked. Sleep remained elusive, and my anxiety grew with each passing minute.

Part of me was scared that if I closed my eyes, I'd wake up to the cold, harsh reality of my prison.

Finally, I pushed the sheets away and sat up. The room was too quiet, too still.

Maybe a glass of milk would help. I remembered reading somewhere that it was supposed to help with sleep.

Besides, I needed to move, to do something to break the cycle of restless thoughts.

I left the room, quietly padding down the hallway. The house was dimly lit, shadows stretching across the walls.

I navigated my way to the kitchen, trying to make as little noise as possible. The last thing I wanted was to wake anyone up.

In the kitchen, I found a glass and the fridge. The soft hum of the refrigerator was oddly comforting as I poured myself a glass of milk.

I took a sip, the cold liquid soothing my dry throat.

The silence of the house felt heavy, almost oppressive, but the milk was grounding, reminding me that this was real.

I was free. I was safe. But the milk didn't magically chase away my fears.

I leaned against the counter, staring into the half-empty glass, my mind still racing.

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