Page 31 of Saviour

But I’ve known since the first moment I met this girl that there’s something buried way beneath the surface. Secrets and fears ingrained far too deep to share. But I saw it in her eyes at the lake, at Sophie’s, and last night.

And when she woke up screaming, I knew something was haunting her, and I could’ve been the trigger to awaken those thoughts she’s spent time burying. But I’ll be damned if I’m not the one responsible for taking them away.

I was only supposed to wait until she fell asleep, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Holding her hand was the closest thing I’ve felt to intimacy in years. Something more than a one-night stand or a bottle of booze can give me.

She’s so frail and small, I want to know her story and how she ended up here. How her hair is the perfect silver, like the moon on a clear night. How her eyes are the iciest blue. How her tiny little body led her to that lake and why, not once in the whole time she’s been in my company, has she mentioned letting at least one person know where she is and that she's safe.

I lie still and watch her sleep, her chest rising and falling in slow breaths for the next twenty minutes before her hand squeezes mine and then she stills. Her whole body freezes when she realises she’s waking up with company.

“Birdie, it’s me,” I reassure her before she scares herself even more.

Her shoulders lower a little in relief and she leans back to look up at me. Her left cheek is red from where she was lying on it and her hair is wispy and layers are sticking out of her plait.

“I want to take you somewhere.”

Rori looks at me and after a minute of debating in her mind, she nods and I smile, hoping it’s the first of many today.

“Shower, get ready. I’ll be back in an hour, okay?”

She nods again and as I twist my legs off the bed, I squeeze her hand, not wanting to let go but knowing I need to. She flinches quickly, pulling her hand into her chest, a small blush creeping onto her cheeks.

I head for the door, throwing her a wink over my shoulder before closing the it behind me.

Exactly an hour later, I knock on her door, desperate to see her again already.

“Come in,” I hear her call quietly.

“Firstly,” I say, walking through the door, “you should always come to the door to check for yourself who it is instead of inviting them straight in.”

Rori is walking out of the bathroom, dressed in a pair of washed out denim jeans and a black jumper, tucked in at the front, and normality has never looked so good on someone.

“I knew it was you. Other men wouldn’t knock.”

“Other men?” I question and she pauses her steps.

“Yeah, assholes who think they can barge in because it’s their home.”

“You don’t think I’m an asshole?” I smile and she glares back at me.

“Debatable.” She rolls her eyes.

She pulls her wet hair over her shoulder again and before she can start to plait it, I jump in.

“Would you like me to plait it again for you?”

She freezes and turns her whole body to face me.

“I just know you like it in a plait. I thought I’d offer,” I say, when she doesn’t reply.

I know her hair is one of those touchy subjects that must be connected to a memory—one I’m trying to replace—but I just want to help her where I can.

“Okay,” she says and sits on the edge of the bed, letting her hair fall down her back.

I approach her slowly and with gentle fingers, part her hair and get to work on French plaiting both sides. She sits in silence, so I continue quietly, enjoying having the opportunity to touch her again.

Once finished, she looks at herself in the mirror again and smiles. I love seeing that smile on her face. It brightens up every single feature and makes those blue eyes of hers almost as light as her hair.

“You ready?” I ask and she nods.

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