"Wendy..."
My eyes go wide at him saying my name. Is he awake? Is he still asleep?
His arm around my waist tightens, anchoring me to him.
"...baby, no... please, don't go... it's not..."
I've heard Atlas' emotional voice, trembling and thick—when he told me he loved me for the first time, when he asked me to marry him, speaking our vows at our wedding, at the boys' births. His voice turns rough around the edges, gravelly like the words are being forcibly dragged from his throat.
This voice is not that one.
This voice is...scary,to be honest.
It's thin, frayed, and raw. It's full of fear.
"Baby... please, I'm so sorry... don't leave me..."
His voice rises in pitch, sounding distressed. The protective urge flares inside of me for him.
My Atlas is hurting, and I need to help him.
I roll over to face him, and Atlas' arm only tightens on me, like it thinks I'm trying to leave. My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and I can see how his face is pulled tight, eyes clenched shut, lips twisted, jaw clenched.
His breathing is short and uneven, and when I press my palm to his sweaty chest, I feel his heart hammering against it.
"Atlas," my other hand comes up to cup his face. He lets out an odd sound, like a growl from his throat. "Honey..."
"Wendy, baby, please don't leave me...."
The plea breaks me, and I cup his face with both of my hands and shake him, pulling him out of his night terror.
"Atlas!"
His eyes fly open and lock onto mine instantly. What I see pulls all the breath from my lungs. It's an expression the boys use when they've been caught doing something they shouldn't have—wide-eyed panic and guilt.
In any other instance, I would find it amusing to see where they learned that expression from, and might even tease him for it.
But there's nothing funny about the fear in Atlas' eyes.
"It's okay, honey," I whisper, comforting him and leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead. "I'm here. I'm right here."
He flinches when my lips make contact with his skin, and when I pull back, he just looks at me for a long moment.
My hands are still on his bearded cheeks, and when my thumb brushes his cheekbone, his face goes slack and soft.
Those eyes of his, the ones I love so much, the ones my children inherited, go hazy, as if my touch has hypnotized him. His arm, still locked around me, pulls me tighter to him. I want to burst into tears when I feel his palm start rubbing my back, just the way he knows I like.
I used to flop onto the bed next to him, and he’d slide his warm hand between my shoulder blades. Not a massage—just comforting contact. I’d purr like a contented kitten, and he’d stay like that for hours if I let him.
It almost makes me cry now. It's been so long since I've touched my husband like this. I'm like a starving woman, gorging myself on this little bit of contact, willing these seconds to last.
I breathe in his scent—his shower soap and pure Atlas, my husband.
God, I love him so much.
Even still, even now. I wish I could wave a magic wand and fix everything, because in his arms, nothing else seems to matter.
What are any of our problems compared to this immeasurable love I have for him?
