Page 63 of Knot Their Safe Haven
The entire ceiling above me is glass, revealing a canopy of autumn fire. Maples bleed crimson into burnt orange oaks, their leaves trembling against a sky caught between storm and sunset. Rain traces delicate patterns across the transparent barrier, each droplet catching the dying sun like liquid amber.
I turn my head slowly, processing this impossible room.
Three walls are floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing mountains dressed in October's finest. Ancient pines stand sentinel among the deciduous riot, their dark green almost black in the fading light. Fog creeps through the valleys below, transforming the landscape into something from a fairy tale.
The fourth wall grounds the space—dark walnut panels and grey stone that speaks of money spent with taste.
The cottage—because this is clearly no hospital—is architectural pornography. Every line deliberate, every angle calculated to capture nature while maintaining luxury.
The bed I'm lying in costs more than most cars, Italian design with a mattress that adapts to body temperature. Medical equipment has been disguised as furniture, monitors built into sleek panels that blend with the modern aesthetic.
Rain intensifies, drumming against the glass roof in a symphony that should feel exposed but instead feels protected. The best description is like being held inside a jewel box while the world performs outside.
When did I get here?
The last few days blur together—tests, medications, specialists speaking in careful German about recovery timelines. Alessandro's presence constant, those emerald eyes tracking my every breath. But I'd been in Munich, in a private room with cream walls and a view of the city.
Not this mountain paradise.
Or architectural wet dream.
I shift, expecting the familiar tug of an IV line.Nothing.My arm moves freely, only a small bandage marking where the needle lived. The relief is immediate—no more careful movements, no more being tethered to bags of chemicals.
Sitting up takes effort but not agony. My legs respond, toes wiggling on command. The surgery worked. The simple victory of motor function makes my throat tight. I'd been so close to paralysis, to being trapped in flesh that wouldn't obey.
The pajamas are unexpected—soft plaid in navy and forest green, designer cut despite the casual pattern. They fit perfectly, like everything else in this curated space. Someone dressed me while unconscious, chose these specific clothes, transported me hours from Germany without waking me.
The thought should disturb me more than it does.
A tablet waits on the nightstand, its black surface reflecting the sunset. A yellow sticky note commands attention in precise handwriting:
"Read me when awake."
The lock screen demands a code—four digits that could be anything. But I know him, or at least I know how his mind works. The boy who used to leave French poetry in my textbooks, who memorized my coffee order after one observation. He'd choose something personal.
My birthday.
The screen unlocks immediately, revealing a single video file labeled "Pour Mon Étoile."
For my star.
I tap play.
Alessandro's face fills the screen, and my breath catches.
He's sitting at my desk—my disaster of an office at the Haven, though it's been transformed. Papers organized, bottles removed, the chaos I cultivate tamed into submission. He wears a charcoal suit that probably costs more than our monthly operating budget, amber eyes serious.
"Bonsoir, ma rébellion étoile."
Good evening, my rebel star.
His French is flawless now, seventeen years of practice erasing any trace of the boy who used to stumble over subjunctive conjugations.
"If you're watching this as intended, it should be evening. The sunset from that room is particularly spectacular in October—I thought you might appreciate beauty while recovering."
Behind him, I can see my office has been commandeered.
New equipment on the desk, multiple phones, papers in languages I recognize as legal documents.
