Page 5 of When The Noise Stops

"Shut up and breathe."

Well damn...

I shut up. I breathed. I needed to, or I'd start crying, and I didn't know this man well enough to cry in front of him. I concentrated on the rise and fall of his chest under my cheek. My eyes drifted closed. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the healed part of me tried to surface.

It didn't make it.

The last clear thought I had was that Knox Mercer—the mean neighbor who grunted instead of speaking, the one who I thought looked racist—made me feel safe. Protected.

I fell asleep.

And for the first time in longer than I could remember, the dark that came for me was quiet.

Chapter 2

Knox

My back hurt like a motherfucker from sitting on the step so long. At thirty-eight, I was too old for this. My arm had gone numb. The sky was that thin gray just before the sun would come up fully. I was looking down at her. Her face was pressed to my chest, mouth slightly open, tracks of tears dried on her face. She smelled like spun sugar and cinnamon.

She woke up suddenly, disoriented.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then her whole body went rigid.

"Oh God—"

She shoved off me hard enough that I had to catch the railing so neither of us ate concrete. She scrambled sideways on the step, hands flying to her hair, her tank top. Embarrassment rolled off her in waves. But she also said, "Thank goodness my titty ain't fall out of this shirt."

She sighed, then looked up at me.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't— I never— Jesus, I cried on you. I fell asleep on you. My saliva is on your shirt. I'm—"

"Stop."

She stopped. Staring at me with big brown eyes, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Up close in the daylight, she looked too innocent to be the voice that came through the walls. Younger than me—maybe twenty-five.

I kept my tone even when I asked, "PTSD from the incident with your husband you mentioned. Diagnosed or undiagnosed?"

She stared like I'd asked for her social security number.

"What?"

"You heard me."

After some quiet, she answered, "Diagnosed. Mostly good now. I still... spiral sometimes."

She squared her shoulders.

"Therapist, or victim of?"

I almost smiled.

"I've seen it before. I'm an ex-Marine."

She nodded.

"Thank you. For... not leaving. And for not making it weird."

I grunted.