?, April ?

I hear a masculine voice in the distance, but my eyes feel like sandbags. It takes a few moments, but I gradually crack my eyes open.

Whoever set the room up was nice enough to leave the big light off, warm-tone lamps illuminating the space without giving me a headache. It’s clearly not a hospital room based on the decor: white walls covered in vines, shelved plants, and a really pretty Persian tapestry. Above me hangs a cream-colored canopy curtain-thingy, and I slowly notice the duvet and blankets covering me are sage and brown colored. Very boho. 

I try to shift, realizing one big problem: I can’t move. Not in a 'I can't feel my limbs I think I’m paralyzed' way, but a ‘I have restraints on my wrist and ankles’ way. The more I fidget, the more I register that I’m not in my work uniform–a branded shirt and blue jeans–but rather a slip night dress. Wiggling some more, I had to confess that it and the sheets I’m tucked in are of excellent quality. 

The growing fixation on what fabric it is breaks as I hear the door start to open. I shut my eyes quickly, hoping for…I don’t even know what. The footsteps are muted, but I can pick up the soft swish of clothes nearing, and the bed dips a little as the person sits.  

Their body heat warms the air around me as I sense them looming, a hand gently thumbing my sore lip. 

“I know you’re up, Keisha. Let me see those gorgeous eyes.”

I know that voice, but it can’t be right. Blinking again, I find Angel staring down at me, soft and happy, like any of this makes sense. 

“There they are.”

“Dee, what’s going on?” There’s a raspiness to my voice now and a slight ache as I try to swallow. 

“I didn’t want you to hurt yourself if you woke up without me nearby. You do have a history after all,” Angel continues, voice full of concern. I don't have time to be offended because Angel reaches for my handcuffs quickly, detaching me with so much care that it almost feels reverent. He rubs the skin of my wrists tenderly, leaving little kisses where the wrap had been. I can’t do anything but gape as he lets go to reach down for my feet, detaching me completely. 

Somehow, Angel is confident I won’t make a fuss. The worst part is that he is correct; I don’t make a single move to reject him as he picks me up and rearranges me to straddle his lap. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he whispers into my neck, and my arms automatically wrap around him. Am I in the twilight zone? Punk’d? Candid Camera? My eyes scan the room briefly, looking for any clue as to how this is happening. As a person with intimate knowledge of hidden cameras, I'm confident that there aren't any from what I can see, which makes this all the more weird. 

Am I having one of those bondage fantasies? Wow. Learn something new about yourself every day. Wonder if I'll remember it long enough to write this down when I wake up.

However, that theory is shattered when his fingers brush over a scalp bandage, which I was too zoned out to feel earlier, drawing a hiss out of me.

“Does it hurt?”

“N-no. Just a little tender.”

“Good, we should start letting the skin breathe,” he murmurs, carefully tugging the gauze away. 

Huh. So Junior robbing me was real… That fucker.

Without warning, Dee stands up and walks to the door, carrying me like a precious cargo. The hallway is as nicely decorated as the room but much more warm with its red cherrywood flooring and cream walls. As he sets me at his kitchen island, I realize it’s an open floor plan, and my head is on a swivel. There’s so much to take in. 

I think I saw an Insta post describing this as “soul train revival”. Very seventies inspired with the updated vertical wood paneling accent wall, the various sunset-colored artwork, and throws and pillows over a deep brown leather sectional. Not to forget the ugly green, retro shag rug that covered most of the living space. That’s all I can see at a glance from this angle.

The kitchen is softer, more femininely coded. A pale lavender cabinet fills the L-shaped kitchen, with natural butcher block for all the counters to fit with the brightness of the paint. To the right is a breakfast nook, white and with floral-print cushions that match the colors throughout the space. 

I hadn’t realized he’d been plating a meal until I heard the glass plate hit the wood in front of me. It’s spinach-stuffed chicken breast with garlic mashed potatoes (skin in)…my favorite.

This entire house is something I consider to my tastes. From the aesthetics to the furniture choices to the staging. It’s everything I ever wanted. Everything I never told Angel in the short time we’ve talked.

“Dee, how did you know what I like,” I fumble out as I spot a rain oil lamp in the living room. 

He hums quietly, handing me a fork and knife. I turn my attention to him, soaking in the sight of him in gray sweatpants and a tight white tee. Angel is so not playing fair. I actually told him to wear that for our date on the 1st. 

He starts to open his mouth, and my raging hormones are interrupted by a soft growl from my stomach.

“I’ll answer the question if you eat. You need something on your stomach,” he says with a nod to my plate.