Sees the dark wooden walls instead of whatever memory had him trapped.
His breathing stutters.
His hand loosens on the sheet.
“I’m here,” I say softly. “You’re here. Cabin. It’s just us.”
He blinks once.
Twice.
The tension in his shoulders trembles before easing by degrees.
His gaze drops to me.
To the way I’m holding him.
And something flickers across his face.
Shame.
He pulls back slightly.
“I didn’t—” he starts, then stops.
“You didn’t hurt me,” I say quickly.
He looks at his own hands like he doesn’t trust them.
“I shouldn’t—”
“You warned me,” I remind him gently.
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not the same.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
Silence hangs heavy between us.
He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Moonlight outlines his back, the scars crossing his skin like old maps.
I sit up too.
“You were somewhere else,” I say quietly.
His shoulders go still.
He doesn’t turn around.
“It happens,” he says flatly.
“How often?”
He doesn’t answer.
That’s answer enough.
