"Eat something." My eyes search for somewhere safe to rest as I sit on the edge of my bed, somewhere other than Juliette's slim figure lying under my crisp, clean sheets that cling to her at every curve. "Then go to sleep. I'll be back for you in the morning."

"Why can't I sleep in my own room?" She asks when I get to my feet. I distract myself from the emotion bubbling up behind her words when she boldly asserts herself like this, I dust off my pants, fix the wrinkles that have begun to form.

"Because I want you to stay here." I tell her, plain and simple. Direct, as everything should be.

"But why?" She whines.

I bark out a laugh that I feel from my toes to my stomach to my fingertips. She sounds like an insolent child when the small murmur escapes from her lips, as if she is complaining about why she cannot play soccer with her friends or eat dessert when she did not even finish her dinner. "So many questions."

"Well if you'd give me a straight answer—" She's perturbed now. It's leaking into her voice.

"Good night, Juliette," I insist, ignoring her belligerence.

Then, all of a sudden, her voice cuts through the air like a sharp knife through a pillow of clouds: "Are you going to let me go?" She asks, this time quietly, this time timidly.

"No," I make my way over to the table with the single candle, the only light source at the moment, "And I won't promise to make things easier for you, either." I'm not going to allow her to make me feel sorry for her, I will not change my ways for her. I will talk about her predicament just as I talk about everything else: simply, clearly.

"You could be lying," she accuses, her voice bold again, but now with a smidgen of tiredness leaking through her words.

"Yes, I could be." I nod as I suppress the smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth, purse my lips together. I blow out the candle on the table and slip wordlessly through the darkness and into my office.

I shut the door quietly behind me as not to disturb Juliette as she drifts off to sleep.

I turn around and walk towards the boardroom table. I tug my gloves off and discard them, throwing them to the ground as I walk. I place my hands on the edge of the dark brown, wood table that stretches through the center of the room. Alone at last. Alone to let myself go, to let myself be free of the rigid mask I put on every day. I run a hand over my face, touch my fingertips to my lips. I cannot sleep in my own bed tonight, so I must distract myself until morning. I cannot think about the reason I've been imprisoned in my office for the night. I will not think about Juliette, her breath shallow and soft against the pillow as she sleeps, her hair flowing behind her in dark, silky waves…

I have to snap out of this.

I walk the wide expanse of the room and find my desk in the opposite corner from the bedroom door. I allow myself to fall back ungracefully into my chair and it rolls closer to the wall as it catches my weight; It's just close enough for me to lean my head against the wall behind me.

I close my eyes and breath. In. Out. I build walls in my mind and break them down, build walls and break them down until all that stands in my mind is a single, white-walled room with one light hanging from the ceiling. It's comforting, peaceful. It's a uniformity that will keep me from going insane.

Suddenly, the walls break again: this time I see them violently crumbling to the ground until they're reduced to dust, to nothing. The walls fall and her face replaces them at the forefront of my thoughts.

She is such a distraction but I allow myself a few moments to relish in her beauty before I shake my head to clear the thought. I sit up too abruptly, too quickly and run a hand through my air. My breath quickens: I am losing my mind. She has been here for a single day and already my fascination with her is getting out of hand.

I stand again as I try to breathe deeply to lower my heartrate. I cross back towards the door to my bedroom, the room that contains the being I'm trying so hard to distance myself from. Despite my annoyance, my frustration with my preoccupation with her, somehow, my hand lands on the door knob.

I push the heavy, metal door open and take quiet, soft steps, hoping that they will not be audible. I hope to god that she's asleep already.

I lower myself onto the edge of the bed so that I can see her face, her eyes are closed, her breaths are soft, her hair is cascading over her shoulders, just as I imagined. She is so beautiful when she sleeps: her mind, her emotions closed off to the world. But it's as if I can still feel her energy radiating off of her, I can feel her strength, even though she is asleep.

She is so open with her emotions during the day, even to me. No one has ever given me this privilege before; My life is a constant blur of "yes, sir"s and blank stares. She, however, is the exception to this, as she is the exception to many things. She yells at me. She complains. I can tell that she cannot hate me, she does not hate me. She is trying so hard to hate me, but I know she doesn't, she's giving me a chance; No matter how many times she calls me a monster, she's trying twice as hard to see me as a human.

I have such big plans for her.

I reach out and run a hand through the waves of her hair that fall against the bed. Carefully… Carefully…

She moves and for a moment, I think she's going to wake up, but she's only turning over in her sleep. She's a restless sleeper, I know, I saw it myself while she was in the asylum. A couple of the men I had assigned to the case were concerned her restlessness was the result of a bigger, deeper issue, and perhaps, yes, it is… But she is not a psychopath, not how I would have them think, not how she's convinced them that she is. She's not a psychopath, but she is not a normal girl, no, she is so much more than that.

I reach my hand out again and run my fingers through her hair one last time and then I promise myself that I'll return to my office, that this ridiculous, juvenile behavior will cease at once.

But as my fingers separate the waves that adorn her head, the faintest smile appears on her lips and my resolve is broken to pieces. My hand stills, her hair slips out from between my fingers; I am caught by the corners of her mouth that turn up so slightly that anyone less perceptive than I would certainly miss it.

It's a luxury that she hasn't yet graced me with before this moment, and I can't help but smile back, even if she's not awake to see it.

"See, love?" I whisper in my absolute quietest voice, "It's not so bad here," I hesitate before adding, my voice even fainter now, "I'm not so bad."

And with that, I forget myself. My ungloved hand reaches towards her uncovered face, to place my hand against her cheek and feel the warmth of her skin against my own. But just as I feel the now-familiar buzz that surrounds her skin, I remember that I cannot touch her. I retract my hand, shake my head to release the thoughts that are forcing themselves into the confines of my head.

I will never be able to touch her. These delusions I have of us being together, of her love will always be just that: delusions.

I truly am losing my mind.