She searches my face. “What does that mean?” she asks quietly.
“It means,” I say, “that if you wake up, I’m still there. If someone comes near you, I’ll wake you. If you start to spiral, I’ll stop it before it takes hold. I’ve got you.” I pause. Then add, truthfully, “And if you don’t sleep at all, that’s fine too.”
She considers that for a long moment.
“You’d stay?” she asks.
“Yes.”
No conditions. No qualifiers.
She nods once, decision made.
Kayla stands slowly, like she’s conserving energy, and crosses to the bed. She hesitates at the edge, then climbs in under the covers fully clothed, curling onto her side with her back to the room.
A defensive position.
I wait.
She doesn’t ask. But after a beat, she shifts, just enough to leave space behind her. An invitation.
I kick off my shoes, strip down to my boxer briefs, and lie down carefully, keeping distance at first. When she doesn’t tense, I slide an arm around her waist – not tight, not trapping. Just contact. Proof. A little weight, like a safety blanket perhaps.
She exhales like she’s been holding it all day.
“Is this okay?” I murmur, not really sure when I became this person. Soft. Caring. Protective.
“Yes,” she says. Immediate. Certain. “Just…don’t let go.”
“I won’t.” And I mean it.
She tucks her hands over my forearm, fingers curling like she’s anchoring herself to something solid. Or trying to ensure I keep my promise. Her breathing evens out gradually, not into sleep, but into something close.
Rest without surrender.
Minutes pass.
Maybe longer.
Her body softens. The constant micro-movements stop. She stills in a way that feels chosen, not collapsed.
At some point, she murmurs, barely audible, “You’re good at this.”
“Watching?” I ask.
“Staying,” she corrects.
I don’t answer but it stirs something in my chest. Anyway, she’s drifting now. Not asleep. Not fully awake. Balanced on that edge where trust lives or dies.
I stay exactly where I am.
Alert.
Present.
Guarding the quiet instead of letting it swallow her.
DON’T HOLD BACK
