My lungs and eyes burn with the effort of holding on to some kind of composure. Part of me wants to weep. Part of me wants to run.

Once more, she studies me, moving to rest between my thighs. In the low light, her brown eyes are dark pools.

“I see you,” she repeats. “And Cillian, you're beautiful.”

I open my mouth—to say what, I don’t know—but she presses her fingers to my lips, silencing me. Saving me. “Shh.”