Page 153 of This Life of Mine

This connection with him—whatever it is—feels unavoidable. Like gravity. Like something I stepped into without realizing how deep it ran until it was already wrapped around me.

It’s almost surreal. Like one of the books I read late at night, the ones where danger and desire blur into something intoxicating. Except this isn’t fiction. This is my life.

And what unsettles me most isn’t fear—it’s how drawn I am to himbecauseof who he is, not despite it.

Alex is dominant in all the right ways. Grounded. Certain. Protective without overpowering. He doesn’t try to own me ordim me or keep me small. He wants me as I am—piercing edges, stubborn streak and all.

He gives me space to stand on my own. And when I need him? He’s there. Solid. Unmoving. Not hovering like I’m fragile. Not stepping in unless I ask. And that matters to me more than I want to admit.

I’ve lived with men who confused dominance with ownership. With men who mistook love for emotional entrenchment.

Alex trusts my instincts. Respects my autonomy. He doesn’t take my agency because he can. And maybe that’s why this doesn’t register as a red flag.

It feels like a choice.Mychoice. A curiously daring one, sure. Complicated. Messy—absolutely.

But I’ve never been afraid of complexity. I’ve lived inside it my whole life.

So I sit here, weighing logic against instinct, safety against connection. Whatever this is—whatever he is—he doesn’t leave me powerless. He sees me.

And right now, that’s not something I’m willing to give up easily.

“Oddly…your past doesn’t scare me,” I say.

Fear, for me, was never a warning signal. It was a tool. Something you learned to mute so you could keep functioning.

That’s why the things most people flinch at never found a place in me. Spiders. Snakes. Heights. Dark water. Enclosed spaces. None of it registers as danger the way it does for others.

My body learned early to save its alarm system for threats that could actually end me. Everything else is noise.

That lesson came to me young.

When you grow up inside instability, your instincts rewire themselves around it. I didn’t grow up learning how to feel safe. I grew up learning how to stay upright.

Alex looks at me, his attention sharpening, his body going still as if he senses what’s coming.

“Alex…” My voice comes quieter now, stripped of the sharpness I usually hide behind. “Do you have some sort of file on me?”

His gaze lifts to mine carefully.

“I imagine you had to do your research on me,” I say. “Can I see it?”

For a moment, he only watches me. Measuring. Then he reaches into his pocket, unlocks his phone, and scrolls through it before handing it over.

“You’re taking this better than I expected.”

“I haven’t decided how I feel yet,” I reply, smiling.

That pulls the faintest breath of amusement from him.

I take the phone and begin scrolling. The file is thorough. Painfully thorough. Addresses. Schools. Employment history. Public records. Dates attached to moments of my life I’ve forgotten. My entire existence reduced to neat sections and clinical observations.

I keep scrolling silently. Alex doesn’t interrupt me. Doesn’t try to justify it.

When I hand the phone back, I say, “It’s a very robust file.”

One corner of his mouth lifts slightly.

“But it’s incomplete,” I add softly.