We continue watching, the movie’s climactic battle fading into background noise as Cora’s breathing deepens. Her head drops onto my shoulder, a warm weight that sends my heart racing. The scent of her shampoo—something floral and delicate—envelops me, and I fight the urge to turn and bury my face in her hair.
With a sigh, I stand, supporting her limp form. I shift her, laying her down on the couch. Her face scrunches at the movement, and I freeze, terrified of waking her. But she settles again, burrowing into the cushions.
I rest her head on one of the throw pillows, my fingers lingering for a moment in her silky hair. The blanket she’d been clutching earlier now serves as her cover, and I tuck it around her.
The movie ends, the credits rolling unnoticed. All my attention is on her. I settle into the armchair opposite.
Cora’s blonde hair fans out on the pillow, framing her face like a halo in a Renaissance painting. Her full, pink lips are slightly parted, soft breaths escaping in a gentle rhythm. Insleep, the worry lines that have creased her forehead lately smooth out, making her seem younger, more vulnerable.
She moves. Soft mumbles escape her lips.
“No, it can’t be. No!” she cries out, tossing her head from side to side, her arms flailing as if pushing away an invisible assailant.
I stand, closing the distance between us in two quick strides.
She’s dreaming, but the pain in her voice feels all too real.
“Cora,” I say, then with more urgency, “Little Trouble.”
She’s having a nightmare; I need to pull her out of it.
I kneel beside the couch, my face level with hers. “Wake up, Cora,” I murmur, my voice low and soothing. “It’s just a dream. You’re dreaming.”
She swings her arm. Her fist connects with my cheekbone in a perfect, brutal punch that sends me reeling.
“Fuck,” I curse, pain exploding across my face. I taste blood where I’ve bitten my cheek.
“Cora. Wake up.” My voice is firmer now. I grasp her shoulders, careful to stay out of striking range this time and shake her. Her pale eyelashes flutter, and a glimmer of consciousness returns.
Her eyes snap open, bright blue irises locking onto mine. For a moment, there’s no recognition, just raw fear and confusion. Her chest heaves with rapid, panicked breaths. I hold her gaze, willing her to see me, to come back to reality.
Slowly, awareness dawns in her eyes. She sees me; she’s awake.
She sits up and throws her arms around me, hugging me as if her life depends on it.
I freeze for a split second, overwhelmed by her proximity. Then, my arms wrap around her. I press my nose to the spotbetween her neck and shoulder, inhaling her. I’d be content to stay in this moment for hours, protecting her from the world.
But all too soon, she pulls away.
“Wha—what happened?” she asks, her voice hoarse and confused.
“You had a nightmare,” I say, still on my knees beside the couch.
“I dreamed about my mom’s accident. When they came to tell me she died,” she says, her voice shaking. “I never dream about that. I didn’t even think I remembered that day. I was less than six.”
“The brain always remembers, even if we’ve pushed the memory into the subconscious. What happened today probably brought it back to the surface.”
“So, my brain is trying to tell me there’s a connection between my mom’s death and the incident today?”
“I didn’t say that,” I reassure her, though the theory intrigues me. “I think your brain is just linking the two traumas it’s experienced. It’s trying to process everything that’s happened.”
She nods, seeming to accept this. Then she tilts her head, her brow furrowing. “What happened to your cheek?”
I touch my face, wincing at the tenderness. I’d almost forgotten about the punch in my concern for her. “Turns out you pack quite a punch.”
“I did that to you?” Horror dawns on her face, her mouth falling open. “Shit. Shit. Ryder, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“I know you didn’t mean to,” I reassure her. “It was in your sleep. I don’t know who you were trying to hit like that, but I hope they deserved it.”
