Her breath shudders against my chest. I hold her and don't move, don't speak.
"Does it get better?" she asks. "This. The—" She gestures vaguely at her own head. "Does it stop?"
"Yeah." I don't soften it or dress it up. "It gets better—not gone, but better."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've been there." I look at her. "What you're feeling—that's trauma. It's not weakness. It's not permanent. But it takes time."
She's quiet.
"You're not broken, Eden. You're surviving."
Her fingers loosen in my shirt, not letting go but just easing.
"You sound like you know what you're talking about."
"I do."
She doesn't push, doesn't ask what happened to me, where I learned this, whose face I see when I close my eyes.
I start to stand.
Her hand catches my wrist and pulls me back down.
"Will you stay?" she asks. "Until I fall asleep."
Everything in me screams no. She's a witness under my protection, vulnerable and traumatized, and the last thing she needs is me in her bed.
"Okay."
She scoots over. I lower myself onto the mattress, staying on top of the covers.
Boundaries. There have to be boundaries.
"You can lie down," she says quietly. "I'm not going to break."
"I'm fine like this."
"You're going to fall off."
"I'm fine."
She makes a sound that could be a laugh or a sigh. "Diesel. Please. Be normal for five minutes. Lie down."
"I'm not normal."
"I've noticed." It's definitely a laugh this time—watery, exhausted, but real. "Lie down anyway."
I last about three seconds before I cave.
I kick off my boots. Swing my legs onto the bed. Lower myself down beside her, still on top of the covers, but at least horizontal now.
The mattress dips under my weight. She rolls toward me—not touching, but close. Her warmth reaches me. Her scent fills my lungs.
Her hand finds mine in the dark.
"Stay," she breathes. Half-asleep already, the word barely a whisper.
