“You’re safe,” he murmurs against my temple. “You’re home. I’ve got you.”
I press my face into his neck and breathe him in, panting and gasping. My heart rate slowly returns to normal as the fragmentsof the nightmare fade, replaced by the solid warmth of the man holding me.
“Sorry,” I manage. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Don’t apologize.” His arms tighten. “Don’t ever apologize.”
This is the third night in a row. The third time I’ve woken up gasping, clawing my way out of nightmares that are far too real. Stone hasn’t complained once. He hasn’t shown any sign of frustration or exhaustion, even though I know he’s not sleeping either.
He holds me. Every time.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Little after four.”
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Josie.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and even in the darkness I can see the worry carved into his features. “You’re not fine. And that’s okay. You went through a horrific experience. It’s going to take time.”
“I know.” I do know. Intellectually, I understand trauma responses. I’ve worked with enough victims to recognize the signs—the hyper-vigilance, the nightmares, the way certain sounds or smells can trigger a flood of memory.
It’s been a while since I experienced any of it.
“Have you thought about talking to someone?” Stone asks carefully. “A professional?”
“You mean a therapist?”
“Yeah.”
I consider it. I used to see a woman in Atlanta. It started as a workplace health and safety yearly mandated exercise to reduce our insurance premiums, but I’d found talking to someone a few times a year about the material I’d been exposed to helped.
“I saw someone in Atlanta,” I say finally. “I’ll reach out and see if she has any tele appointments available.”
“Sounds good.”
“But let me get through the next few days first. The FBI debrief, the election, all of it. Then I’ll book it.”
“You want me to organize it for you?”
“No, I’m good. Really.”
“Okay.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Whatever you need.”
Whatever you need.He’s been saying that a lot lately.Whatever you need, Josie. Just tell me and I’ll make it happen.
The problem is, most of the time I don’t know what I need. I feel fragile and vulnerable in a way I’ve never felt before—like if I move too fast or think too hard, I’ll shatter into a thousand pieces. Ihateit. I’ve spent my entire adult life being strong, being capable, being the person others lean on. This weakness feels like a betrayal to the person I am.
“You’re overthinking it,” Stone murmurs.
“I’m not?—”
“You are. I can practically hear the gears grinding.” He shifts us so we’re lying face to face, his hand cupping my cheek. “Talk to me.”
“I just...” I struggle to find the words. “I feel broken. I know that’s normal, I know it’s a trauma response, but knowing something intellectually and feeling it are two different things.”
