Romane von seichegeorgiana66

Erik’s POVIt’s strange how quickly you can get used to silence.My apartment, once a place of deliberate solitude, now carries the faint sound of footsteps that aren’t mine. The soft clink of a teacup. The creak of the balcony door opening at odd hours. Her presence is light—like she’s trying not to disturb anything—but I feel it everywhere.Kim’s careful.Not just in how she walks or moves, but in how she exists. Like she’s apologizing for taking up space. Like she’s expecting to be punished for it.That’s the part that gets me most.I’ve seen abuse victims before. Too many. But none of them have ever lodged themselves into my chest the way she has. Maybe it’s the way she looks at the world—like it’s a place she’s only visiting, never really welcome to stay.Maybe it’s because she never cries in front of me. Even when she’s clearly on the edge. She just presses her lips together, holds her breath, and swallows it all down like poison she’s used to.And I hate that. I hate what that

Kim’s POVThe hospital smells like antiseptic and tired hope.I sit in the waiting room with my fingers curled into the hem of my hoodie, trying not to let the buzz of fluorescent lights or the distant echo of crying children unravel me. My right arm rests in my lap, cast still intact for now, though the skin beneath it itches like it’s begging to breathe again.Erik sits beside me, flipping through a magazine he’s not really reading. I can feel the shape of his presence more than I see it—solid, quiet, grounding. He hasn’t said much since we left the apartment, but I don’t need words from him today. I just need him here.My name is called by a nurse with a kind voice, and for a second, I freeze. My legs don’t move. My lungs forget how to expand.Erik’s hand finds mine, firm and warm.—“I’ll come with you,” he says simply.I nod, and together we rise.The cast is sawed off slowly, carefully. The sound of the machine still makes my stomach twist, but I keep my eyes on Erik, who leans a

Kim’s POV It’s strange how silence can be both a comfort and a curse. I lie on the couch in Erik’s apartment, wrapped in a soft grey blanket that still smells faintly of his cologne. Outside, the city hums — distant sirens, horns, a dog barking somewhere far below — but up here, it’s quiet. Too quiet, sometimes. I never realized how much noise trauma made until it was gone: the slammed doors, the raised voices, the creaking floorboards under heavy, angry footsteps. Now, when the silence stretches long, I can hear my own heartbeat. And it terrifies me. I turn over, clutching the blanket tighter to my chest. My casted arm rests awkwardly on a pillow, the plaster cold against my cheek. My body is healing, or at least pretending to. But my thoughts… they still wander too easily to places I don’t want to revisit. He’s dead. That should comfort me. But it doesn’t. I remember the sound the vase made when it cracked against his skull. I remember the way he looked at me—almost surprised

Kim’s POV I lie sprawled on the bed in the detective’s—no, Erik’s—bedroom. I still haven’t gotten used to calling him by his first name, even though he smiled when he corrected me. I don’t know why that smile sent a warm shiver through me, like a timid sunbeam slipping through a dusty window. The room is simple but welcoming. The sheets are freshly laundered; they smell faintly of detergent and something subtle, like old wood and dried tobacco. There are no decorations—only an old framed photo on the nightstand that I haven’t had the courage to study too closely. I’m afraid I’d feel something I shouldn’t: gratitude… and something else. Something I can’t let take root. My left hand brushes across the sheet. It’s soft. I’ve never felt like this in a bed before—not just comfortable, but safe. As if, when I close my eyes, I don’t have to fear waking to a scream or a slap. That nothing will wrench me from sleep except quiet. But I can’t really sleep. I close my eyes and see blood. I he

Detective Erik Johns’ POV I stared intently at the photos on my desk: images of the crime scene at Miss Kim Blake’s home, and the pictures the doctor had taken of her injuries. As I examined them, my fists clenched involuntarily. How could a father do something like this to his own daughter? How does someone survive living in such a hell? I knew the wounds on her body would heal—sooner or later. But the ones on her soul... those would stay, bleeding on the inside for the rest of her life. I’ve been a cop for many years. I’ve seen horrors that would steal the sleep of any ordinary person. But this case hit differently. Her eyes when she asked me if her father was dead... they haunted me. It wasn’t a question born of fear—but of deep desperation, like she couldn’t believe her nightmare had actually ended. If that monster were still alive, I might’ve been the one to make sure he paid for everything. — “Sir, what are we doing with Kim Blake? It’s been two weeks since she was hospit

Kim Pov.Once we arrived at the hospital, everything blurred into a confusing swirl of voices, lights, and hands touching me. Doctors and nurses buzzed around, their faces wearing the same expression—pity laced with professionalism. I didn’t want to meet their eyes. If I had the strength, I would’ve run. I wanted to disappear somewhere no one could ever look at me again.But the pain pinned me in place.My arm, now in a cast, throbbed with every movement, and my fractured ribs made it hard to breathe. The sterile smell of disinfectant was suffocating, but even worse was the overwhelming sense of vulnerability. It was heavier than all my wounds combined.The examinations felt endless. I’d lost all sense of time.I thought nothing could be worse—until the doctor, a petite woman with a kind voice, brought up the idea of a gynecological exam.— "Miss Blake, would you consider seeing a gynecologist as well? It’s for your well-being," she said gently.Her words hit like a dagger.Panic surg