Too Late For Regret, Mr. Carlson

The door banged against the wall with the sound of a gunshot.

Alexia jumped. She was on the floor, kneeling beside a pile of blankets she had arranged into a makeshift bed.

Jensen stared at the nest of pillows on the hardwood floor. Then he looked at the massive, king-sized bed, perfectly made, empty.

What are you doing? he asked. His voice was tight.

Alexia stood up. She was wearing oversized pajamas, but she still looked frail. Her hand went automatically to her side.

The guest rooms are locked, she said. Her voice was flat. "Eleanor's orders."

So you sleep on the floor? Like a dog?

I'm not sleeping in that bed with you, Jensen.

He walked into the room, kicking a pillow across the floor. "This is ridiculous. You are my wife. You sleep in the bed."

I'm your hostage, she corrected. "Not your wife."

He grabbed her arm. He didn't mean to squeeze, but he was angry. He was unsettled, though he wouldn't admit it.

Get in the bed, Alexia.

She winced. "You're hurting me."

He let go as if burned. He saw the red marks his fingers left on her pale skin. Guilt flashed through him, hot and quick, but he buried it under anger.

Fine, he spat. "Sleep on the floor. See if I care. If you get sick, don't expect me to play nurse."

He stormed into the bathroom. He turned the shower on cold. He stood under the spray, trying to wash away the image of her passport. Trying to wash away the feeling of losing control.

When he came out, the room was dark.

He got into bed. The sheets were cold.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling. He could hear her breathing on the floor. It was shallow, uneven. Hitching breaths.

He turned on his side. He looked over the edge of the bed.

She was curled into a tight ball, shivering.

Dammit.

He threw the covers off. He got out of bed and bent down.

Alexia.

She didn't answer. She just whimpered.

He scooped her up. She was terrifyingly light. She felt like a bird, all hollow bones and fragility.

No… she mumbled, pushing weakly against his chest.

Shut up, he whispered.

He laid her on the bed. He pulled the duvet over her.

She scrambled to the far edge, putting as much distance between them as the mattress allowed. She turned her back to him.

Jensen lay down on his side. He stared at the curve of her spine under the pajamas.

He wanted to reach out. He wanted to pull her back to the center. Back to him.

Instead, he turned his back to her.

They lay there, inches apart, separated by an ocean of silence.