“There you go,” he whispered, relief thick in his voice. “That’s it.”
I sucked in a ragged breath, sat up fast, grabbing at my throat.
“Holy shit—” My voice broke. “Oh my God, that was so real.”
Another shudder ripped through me. “He was here. Liam, he washere—I swear?—”
“Hey.” His hands came up to cradle my face, his forehead touching mine. “Sweetheart, look at me. You’re safe. You’re safe. Right here, with me.”
I gasped like I’d been underwater for minutes, dragging air into lungs that didn’t want to work. My whole body shook—violent, uncontrollable tremors.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, one hand sliding up and down my back in slow, grounding strokes. “You’re safe. Nothing’s getting to you while I’m breathing.”
My fingers fisted in his skin, clinging like he was the only solid thing in a world made of glass.
“Don’t leave,” I whispered, voice shaking so badly the words almost didn’t form. “Please…don’t leave.”
His arms tightened around me, fierce and protective. He cupped the side of my face, thumb ghosting over my cheekbone, grounding me in a way nothing else could. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He slid down onto the mattress beside me, pulling me fully into his arms. My head fit under his chin like it had always belonged there. His heartbeat thudded steadily against my ear—warm, reliable, the most comforting sound I’d ever known.
As the last tremors left my body, his lips brushed the top of my head.
Gentle. Careful. Protective.
Not crossing a line—but standing on it.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered as my breath finally, finally began to match his. “Sleep, baby, I’ll keep watch.”
His arms wrapped around me, one hand in my hair, the other spread across my back like a shield. He was so warm, so solid, like a living wall between me and the world.
Within minutes, his breathing changed, deepened, and evened out into the rhythm of sleep. And then?—
He started snoring.
Not loud, window-rattling snoring like my dad used to do. This was soft, almost musical—a gentle rumble in his chest that vibrated through his whole torso. It was like lying on a purring lion. The sound was so utterly normal, so completely unguarded, that something in my brain finally accepted that we were safe.
If Liam was relaxed enough to snore, then there was no danger. My subconscious grabbed onto that sound like a lifeline. As long as the snoring continued, steady as a metronome, I was safe.
For the first time in weeks, I fell into deep, dreamless sleep.
The next day, I was exhausted. Bone-deep, soul-weary exhausted, like I'd run a marathon in my sleep. The nightmare hangover clung to me—that particular combination of exhaustion and hypervigilance that comes after a bad one. My body ached from the tension, my throat was raw from screaming, and I kept catching phantom whiffs of cologne that made me want to vomit.
"You okay?" Liam asked over breakfast, watching me push eggs around my plate.
"I'm fine," I lied, trying to smile. "Just tired."
He didn't push, but his eyes said he knew better.
That night, I was determined to prove I was okay. I went to my cabin after dinner, took a long shower, trying to wash away the lingering fear-sweat memory, and put on fresh pajamas. I climbed into my own bed, pulling the quilts up to my chin.
"I'm fine," I told the darkness. "It was just one bad night. I'm fine."
I lasted forty-seven minutes.
The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating. Every shadow could hide someone. Every creak of the cabin settlingsounded like footsteps. My skin went clammy again, that awful cold sweat of anticipation. My heart started its familiar terror-rhythm, and I knew—knew with absolute certainty—that if I stayed here, the nightmare would come back.
I padded barefoot across the yard to his house, the ground cold under my feet, the night air raising goosebumps on my arms. Through his unlocked door—God bless small-town Texas—down the hall to his room.
