“When my mother died, I locked myself in a bathroom and cried for two days straight.” “I'm sorry,” I whisper as he presses a strangely intimate kiss to the side of my forehead. “Thanks,” is his response. “For what?” I ask, trembling and shedding messy tears all over the black silk pillow beneath my head. “You seem to be the one comforting me.” “For this. I hate sleeping alone, baby girl. I hate it.”
