“Would you stay? Just for a little while?” The request comes out in a whisper, like she’s ashamed to ask.
“Of course,” I say without hesitation. I shift to sit with my back against the headboard, careful to keep a respectful distance between us.
She doesn’t move closer, but some of the tension leaves her shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Do you have these nightmares often?” I ask.
“They come and go.” She stares down at her hands. “More often when I’m stressed or... when I feel unsafe.”
The implication stings a little. “You don’t feel safe here?”
“No, that’s not—” She sighs. “It’s complicated. My brain doesn’t always know the difference between real danger and... past danger.”
I understand immediately. “The body remembers what the mind tries to forget.”
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and I see a flash of recognition—the knowledge that I’ve been there too, that I understand nightmares that aren’t just dreams but memories with sharper teeth.
“Exactly.” She relaxes a fraction more, her shoulders dropping. “How did you know?”
“Experience,” I admit. “After some of the... operations I was part of. Sleep isn’t always restful.”
She nods, and I can see she wants to ask more but isn’t sure if she should. I save her the trouble.
“I’ve had my share of nights where I wake up fighting shadows,” I tell her. “Nights where I can still smell the smoke, feel the heat of an explosion, hear the—” I stop myself. “Well. You get the idea.”
“Does it ever go away?” she asks softly.
I consider lying, telling her what she wants to hear, but something about the darkness and the quiet between us demands honesty.
“Not completely,” I say. “But it gets better. Less frequent. Less intense. You learn to recognize the triggers, to prepare for the bad nights.”
She absorbs this, her fingers still moving rhythmically through Scout’s fur. “I thought I was past this. It’s been months since...”
When she doesn’t continue, I don’t push. Whatever haunts her nightmares is hers to share when—and if—she’s ready.
“Try to get some rest,” I say instead. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
She nods, sliding back down under the covers. Scout repositions himself against her side, his head on her shoulder like a living, breathing shield. I start to move to the chair by the window, but her hand shoots out, catching my wrist.
“Stay here?” she asks, her voice small again. “Please?”
I settle back against the headboard, my leg stretched out alongside hers on top of the blanket, maintaining a careful distance. She closes her eyes, her breathing gradually slowing.
Just when I think she’s drifted off, she speaks, her voice barely audible.
“I used to be someone else,” she murmurs. “Someone stronger.”
I look down at her, at the vulnerability and strength tangled together in her features. “I think you’re plenty strong now,” I tell her honestly.
A small smile touches her lips, there and gone in an instant. Then her breathing evens out, her features smoothing in sleep, and I’m left watching over her, wondering about the woman she used to be and the ghosts that still haunt her.
Chapter 14
Caleb
I don’t mean to fall asleep. I intend to slip away once I’m sure she’s resting peacefully. But the warmth of the room and the rhythmic sound of her breathing lull me into a drowse, and before I know it, my eyes are closing.
When I wake, early morning light is filtering through the curtains. My leg is stiff, and there’s a weight against my side that wasn’t there before. Sometime during the night, Lana has shifted closer, her head now resting against my shoulder, one hand curled loosely on my chest. Scout is sprawled across our feet, snoring softly.
