Page 149 of Misery
Later, after dinner, Oskar takes me to his place.
He shows us his room—our room, maybe.
It's bigger than the one I've been using.
King bed, dark furniture, surprisingly neat for a single man.
Or maybe not surprising. After all, this man is insanely controlled.
"I want to try," I tell him.
"Try what?"
"Sleeping in the same bed every night. Being close. I need to know if I can."
"We don't have to?—"
"I know. But I want to. My choice, remember?"
He nods, starts to undress.
I watch him, this man who's been watching me.
Scars tell stories of violence survived—the one on his ribs from Thiago, older ones from fights I don't know about.
Muscles speak of strength used for protection and destruction equally.
He's beautiful in that dangerous way.
Beautiful and mine, if I want him.
I pull off my shirt, no ceremony.
No performance, just undressing.
But his eyes track every movement like I'm art he's memorizing.
"You're staring."
"You're letting me."
Once I get down to underwear, we get into bed.
Awkward at first, finding positions like teenagers who don't know how bodies fit together.
We finally settle with me on my side, him curved behind me.
Not quite spooning but close.
I can feel the heat of him through the space between us.
"This okay?"
"Yeah."
His arm drapes over my waist, careful.
I can feel his breathing, forced, steady and controlled.
