Page 18 of UnTrained: Volume Two
"What do you need right now?" he asks.
The question catches me off guard. What do I need? For so long, my needs were irrelevant, my desires crushed beneath the weight of survival. Having someone ask what I need still feels revolutionary.
"I don't know," I whisper, my voice smaller than I want it to be. "Maybe just... time?"
"Just sit with me," I say finally. "I think I just need to feel... normal for a minute."
Aiden nods, settling beside me against the headboard. He doesn't touch me, but his presence is solid, reassuring. We sit in silence for several minutes, the only sound our breathing gradually synchronizing.
"I used to think I knew what normal was," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Before everything happened, I had this routine. Wake up, coffee, teach, grade papers, feed Mochi, sleep. Repeat. It felt so... ordinary at the time."
Aiden listens without interrupting, his blue eyes steady on my face.
"Now I'd give anything to feel that kind of ordinary again," I continue. "But I don't think I can. That version of me is gone."
"Not gone," Aiden says softly. "Changed. There's a difference."
I consider his words, turning them over in my mind like smooth stones in a river. Changed, not gone. The distinction feels important, though I'm not sure I fully understand it yet.
"How do I learn to live with who I am now?" I ask, the question that's been haunting me since my return.
Aiden's hand rests on the bed between us, palm up—an invitation, not a demand. After a moment, I place my hand in his, his fingers closing around mine with gentle pressure.
"One day at a time," he says. "Some days will be harder than others. You'll have setbacks. But each time you choose to keep going, you get stronger."
I look down at our joined hands, marveling at how something so simple can feel so profound. His thumb traces circles on my skin, the rhythmic motion soothing the jagged edges of my anxiety.
"Maybe you're right," I whisper, watching the way his thumb moves against my skin. The gentle rhythm is hypnotic, grounding. "I just wish there was a roadmap for this. Some kind of guide to tell me I'm doing it right."
Aiden smiles, the expression warming his eyes. "If there was a perfect roadmap for healing, someone would have found it by now."
I let out a soft laugh that surprises me. "I guess so."
My stomach growls again, louder this time, and Aiden's smile widens. "I think that's our cue." He squeezes my hand gently before releasing it. "How about I make us some breakfast?"
"That sounds good," I say, feeling steadier now. The moment of panic has passed, leaving me drained but calmer.
Aiden slides from the bed, pulling on his pants with unhurried movements. I watch him, appreciating the fluid grace of his body, the way muscles shift beneath his skin. He catches me looking and smiles, a hint of heat in his gaze that makes my cheeks warm.
"Take your time," he says. "Join me when you're ready."
16
Ilinger in bed after he leaves, listening to the sounds of Aiden moving around my kitchen. The familiar clanking of pots and pans, the opening and closing of cabinet doors—it's strangely comforting, these domestic noises that remind me I'm not alone anymore.
When I finally rise, I wrap myself in my robe and pad to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror looks different somehow—flushed cheeks, brighter eyes, hair tousled from Aiden's fingers. For the first time in months, I recognize myself.
I touch my lips, still tender from his kisses. My body aches in places that remind me of what we just shared, but it's a pleasant soreness, nothing like the pain I endured at the facility. This is the aftermath of pleasure freely given and received, not violation.
After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I dress in comfortable clothes—soft leggings and an oversized sweater that makes me feel cocooned in safety. I follow the scent of coffee and something savory down the hallway to the kitchen.
Aiden stands at the stove, his back to me as he flips something in a pan. The domesticity of the scene makes my heart clench with unexpected emotion. It's so ordinary, yet so extraordinary after everything that's happened.
"Smells good," I say, lingering in the doorway. The domesticity of the scene is in sharp contrast to the way he dominated me in the bedroom.
He turns, and the smile that lights his face sends warmth spreading through my chest. "Just some eggs and toast. Nothing fancy."
"Fancy doesn't matter," I reply, moving into the kitchen. "Normal matters more."
