I pull the bathroom door shut behind me, careful, quiet, like sealing in a secret I can’t let leak into the room.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” I say.
Noah frowns. “Nightmares?”
My throat tightens.
He asks the question like he knows the patterns—like he’s studied the nights I wake up gasping for air, like he’s memorised the moments my body betrays me.
But he doesn’t know why.
He never has.
I climb back into bed, skin still cold from the tiles, movements stiff and deliberate.
Noah reaches for me immediately—hand sliding onto my hip,
pulling me in, warm and heavy and present.
I flinch.
So small a movement I pray he doesn’t feel it.
But he does.
His fingers pause.
His voice goes low. Careful.
“What’s wrong?”
Everything.
Everything is wrong and I can’t say why.
“It’s just… residual panic,” I whisper. “It’ll pass.”
“Panic from what?” he presses.
He studies me in the dim light—eyes narrowed, jaw tight, breath measured like he’s trying not to scare me.
His hand rubs my side in slow, grounding circles that don’t ground me at all.
I force a breath. “It was just a bad dream.”
He exhales, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “You scared me when you left the bed like that.”
Noah scared is worse than Noah angry.
Noah scared means he’ll be watching harder.
Looking closer.
Listening for cracks.
I shift onto my back, staring at the ceiling—white, clean, border lined with recessed lighting that hums faintly.
This house is supposed to be safe.
