"Jesus Christ," I breathe.
He makes a low sound—not a growl, something softer. A rumble that vibrates through his whole body and into mine, resonating in my bones. His weight shifts, pressing down more firmly, and I realize what he's doing.
Pressure. Grounding. The same thing weighted blankets do for anxiety, except this is a two-hundred-pound lion who's choosing to be my weighted blanket.
My heart is still pounding, sweat cooling on my skin, but the panic is already fading. Hard to stay trapped in a nightmare when there's a giant cat pinning you to the bed, watching you with eyes that sayI'm here, you're safe, I've got you.
"How long was I—" My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat. "How long?"
Jason shifts, and between one breath and the next, the lion is gone and it's just him—naked, human, still half-draped across me. The transition is seamless, like watching smoke change shape.
"Maybe five minutes," he says quietly. "You were thrashing. Talking. Saying his name." He doesn't specify whose name. He doesn't have to. "I tried to wake you up but you weren't hearing me, so I just..." He shrugs. "Shifted. Seemed like you needed the weight more than the words."
"You shifted. Into a lion. In my bed."
"Yeah."
"While I was having a nightmare."
"You said you wanted to see my lion sometime." His mouth curves, just slightly. "Surprise?"
I stare at him. This man—this ridiculous, impossible man—saw me having a trauma nightmare and his first instinctwas to turn into a giant predator and lie on top of me until I calmed down.
"That's the most insane thing anyone's ever done for me."
"Did it help?"
I take stock. Heart rate coming down. Hands have stopped shaking. The images from the dream are fading, replaced by the reality of Jason's warm weight and the lingering sensation of fur against my skin. The feeling of his rumble still echoing through me.
"Yeah," I admit. "It helped."
"Good." He settles more comfortably against me, head on my shoulder, arm across my stomach. Like this is normal. Like waking up under a lion is just how mornings work now. "Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Okay."
That's it. No pushing, no questions, no concerned looks that demand explanation. Just okay, and the steady rhythm of his breathing against my ribs.
"It was Brennan," I say, because apparently I'm talking about it anyway. "The IED. I was there when it happened. In the vehicle behind his. I saw—" I stop. "Sometimes I dream about it."
Jason's hand finds mine, threads our fingers together. "How often?"
"Used to be every night. Now it's maybe once a week. Sometimes less."
"What usually helps?"
"Nothing. I just wait it out. Go for a run if it's bad enough. Exhaust myself until I can sleep without dreaming."
"What about tonight?"
I think about it. The way the panic dissolved the moment I registered the weight on top of me. The way his rumble—his purr, I guess, do lions purr?—vibrated through me like a reset button.
"Tonight a lion sat on me," I say. "That was new."
"I can do that again. If you want. When it happens."
"You're offering to shift into a two-hundred-pound predator and pin me to the bed whenever I have a nightmare."
