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Christian traces nonsensical patterns down the knobs of Satine’s spine, humming contentedly. She allows this to continue until she catches her breath (as well as she ever can, these days), until the sweat on her skin starts to cool, until her heart stops thundering so loudly in her chest. Then she rolls off her lover and—with a movement requiring more emotional effort than she’d care to admit—forces herself to rise and find her clothing.
Satine hears the rustle of bedding behind her as Christian sits up, trying not to imagine how he must look right now: hair mussed and thin sheets pooling around his waist. Redressing is always significantly less fun than undressing; the anticipation is over, her hair is in desperate need of a brush, and her clothing sticks to her sweaty skin.
Also, it might be days before she finds herself in Christian’s bed once again.
“You’re leaving so soon?” Christian asks.
“It’s late,” Satine responds, still avoiding eye contact as she slips into her dress. Satine can’t reach the fastenings but still she fumbles for a moment, trying, before she remembers she isn’t alone. It’s taking her a while to wrap her head around that. Usually her customers leave the moment they’re done without so much as a backward glance. Satine walks to the bed and presents Christian with her back, trying not to tremble at this display of trust.
Wordlessly, he does up her dress, his fingers swift and sure. He’s becoming quite practiced at this. Perhaps so is she. It’s getting a little easier each time not to flinch or tense. Christian’s lips press against the nape of her neck, warm breath making the tiny hairs there stand on end. Satine removes herself from his light grasp on her shoulders, knowing if she doesn’t leave now she never will.
“I wish you’d stay,” he says, once Satine has paused in the doorway.
She turns around slowly and takes him in: earnestly hopeful smile, bare chest gleaming in the moonlight shining through the dirty window panes, eyes so full of longing that it makes her chest ache.
Satine’s fingers tighten reflexively around the doorknob so she won’t be tempted to shrug off her clothes and rejoin Christian under the warm sheets, to spend the night in his arms. Satine believes that Christian loves her in spite of her flaws—the ones he is aware of, at least. But that’s during the daytime when she can remain poised and in control, when she can use her Sparkling Diamond persona to sand down the sharpest edges of her broken pieces so Christian isn’t hurt.
Nighttime Satine is different; she lacks that same level of control. Terrifying memories in the form of dreams haunt her sleeping hours. Sometimes she wakes kicking and screaming and thrashing about in the covers. Sometimes she wakes with silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Either way, Christian will achieve no true rest with Satine in bed beside him.
“No, you don’t,” she says to Christian, her voice soft but firm. Then she steps out of the room and shuts the door, swallowing past the lump in her throat. Satine is grateful that she’s found Christian at all, but she knows he won’t stay when he could have someone who is… whole. She can’t hide how broken she is forever—he’s bound to notice and leave eventually—but for now she’ll delay their inevitable separation and soak up every last moment she has left with Christian.
— — —
A sound on her balcony makes Satine gasp and sit up in bed, a shaking hand held to her racing heart.
“I’m sorry,” Christian says, his expression one of genuine apology. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping,” Satine informs him. She’d been trying, but thus far sleep had evaded her. “What are you doing here?”
Christian smiles tentatively. “I missed you,” he says, like it’s as simple as that. He missed her so he sought her out. “I wasn’t planning to disturb you,” he continues, hands in his pockets, “I was merely out for a walk by the club—just to be near you—when I saw the lamp burning and thought you might want company.”
Satine stares at him for a long moment, considering. They’ve been conducting their affair for a month. A month of Christian asking to sleep beside her and Satine demuring. Perhaps now it’s time to let Christian see another side of her and deal with whatever the fallout may be.
Besides, this time Christian hasn’t asked if he could stay, he’s asked if Satine wants him to stay. There’s a difference, and Satine’s stomach hurts at the thought of lying to him and then watching him climb back out her window, spending more lonely hours staring at the ceiling and trying to quiet her thoughts while waiting for the sun to rise.
Wordlessly, Satine pulls the covers back in invitation.
Christian’s answering grin is almost enough to dispel her worries. Almost.
In bed beside her, Christian tucks a stray lock of hair behind Satine’s ear. “Are you tired?” He asks. “I mean, would you like to sleep or—?”
Satine grabs him by the shirt collar and pulls him into a searing kiss. She leans back, peering up at Christian through her eyelashes.
“Or it is then,” he says, sounding so out of breath already that it makes Satine laugh. She drags him down to the mattress, kissing him again and reveling in the feel of his hands all over her bare skin, touching her until laughter and nightmares and the ending of affairs are the farthest things from her mind.
— — —
Having woken from a nightmare, Satine cries while under silk sheets she’s drenched through with a cold sweat. Christian is asleep. It would be so easy to let him remain that way, but Satine has no desire to prolong the inevitable. She wants to give him a glimpse into a future spent by her side so he can choose whether he’d like to stay or leave. And she simply doesn’t want to be alone right now. If Christian is amendable she wants to be held, to discover if he’ll still find her loveable.
With numb fingers, Satine nudges Christian’s shoulder. That’s all she can manage. Then she waits.
“...tine?” Christian mumbles, stirring. At first he seems likely to fall back asleep. Her heart sinks. Then he forces his eyes open. He blinks up at her and sees how awful she must look: puffy face and wide eyes, biting into the meat of her palm to muffle her sobs, and trembling like the last stubborn leaf clinging to a tree in a winter breeze.
“Satine!” He exclaims, urgently this time, and he’s up in a flash. “What’s the matter? Have you had a nightmare?”
Satine nods before falling into him, tumbling forward because she no longer has the strength to remain upright. Strong arms quickly wrap around her, pulling her close.
It isn’t enough.
Satine tries to bring herself impossibly nearer, clutching at Christian like he’s a lifeboat amid the tumultuous storm of her thoughts. She gets tangled up with him—knees, elbows, ankles, wrists overlapping and bent in awkward ways—but she doesn’t have the energy to sort out where she ends and he begins.
It’s Christian who does, carefully maneuvering her limbs until she’s in a more comfortable position. Then his shirt is being dragged down over her head and her arms guided through the sleeves. She didn’t realize she was ice cold until she felt the heat of his chest against hers.
Satine’s sobs are loud with her hand no longer covering them. The noise seems to reverberate off the walls but she doesn’t want to let Christian go so she cries freely, uninhibited. Satine clings to him hard enough to leave behind crescent-moon fingernail marks (though she won’t notice that until later) while Christian rubs small circles on her back, over the fabric of his shirt. He’s murmuring words to her but Satine can’t hear them and she doesn’t try too hard to make them out, just lets the tide of his voice wash over her and carry her safely to shore.
Eventually—after what feels like hours—her sobs melt into these equally pathetic hiccupy breaths. It’s then that she can hear Christian’s words.
“I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re safe. I love you.”
He repeats them over and over again, like a mantra.
I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re safe. I love you.
Satine stops trembling. She doesn’t speak, just listens. She takes those four little sentences and memorizes the way they sound on Christian’s lips, tucking them away to recall on nights she’s alone.
“I’m sorry,” Satine interrupts him, her voice raspy, removing her fingernails from Christian’s shoulders.
He’s quiet and still for a long moment. “I’m glad you woke me,” he says eventually, resuming rubbing her back. “Do you want to talk about—”
“No.”
Satine expects him to protest, but instead Christian accepts her answer. He presses his lips to her forehead and warmth blossoms in her chest.
Satine interrupts any further conversation with a yawn so wide it makes her jaw ache.
“Are you tired?” Christian asks.
Satine can only nod. She’s so very, very tired. Fatigue has settled into her bones, weighing down her heart. She thinks she was twelve years old the last time she truly slept.
Christian kisses her forehead once more then leans back onto the mattress slowly, careful not to dislodge Satine from where she’s comfortably settled against his chest. “You should sleep.” He smooths her sweaty hair down her back.
It would be so easy to drift off, but Satine wills herself to keep her eyes open. “You should go home. At least one of us ought to get some undisturbed rest.”
Christian draws the bedding over them both, his message clear. “I don’t mind losing a little sleep for you.”
“The bad dreams are sort of a nightly ordeal,” Satine admits, feeling her face heat. “That is, you’re going to lose more than a little sleep if I’m around.” She feels Christian’s eyes on her, the draw of his gaze. Despite her embarrassment, Satine forces herself to look up, dreading the emotions she expects to see in his face: annoyance, frustration, irritation, disappointment, exhaustion, pity.
Instead—while Christian does look sleepy—the overwhelming emotions in his eyes are concern, compassion, care.
Love.
Satine feels her breath catch, surprised. Perhaps, impossibly, his love for her is real. The proof is in his desire to move toward her while she’s upset, rather than away. Maybe he’ll even stay.
Christian cups her face with his hand and Satine leans into his soft touch, the brush of his thumb against her cheek as gentle as butterfly wings. “Wake me again if you need to. As many times as you need to,” he says, and Satine can tell he means it.
He wants to be with her, even if she disrupts his sleep, even if it’s terribly inconvenient for him. Satine hadn’t thought she was capable of being loved at all before she’d met Christian. And now, to be loved like this…
This is real. That terrifies her and makes her want to run. But she also wants to grab hold with both hands and never let go.
Satine is far too exhausted to contemplate this any further. She’s tired of running. She wants rest, the soft place to land that Christian is offering, the promise that—though the dreams will likely continue—she won’t be alone when she wakes. It makes the thought of sleep slightly less frightening than it’s been in a long, long time. Satine gives a little nod, the tiniest dip of her chin. Then she rests her head back on Christian’s chest.
His hand is in her hair, massaging her scalp. The steady rhythm of Christian’s heart thumping away beneath her ear is the sweetest lullaby Satine has ever heard. She’s asleep in moments.