I move to the bed, unsure what to do. I’m not good at comfort and gentleness. These are soft things that require a tenderness I’ve never quite mastered, but I can't just stand here and watch her suffer.
“Vera.” I sit on the edge of the bed, reaching out to shake her shoulder gently. “Wake up. You’re dreaming."
She doesn’t respond. She just keeps thrashing, her face twisted in anguish. The sheets are wrapped around her legs, trapping her, and she’s fighting against them like they’re enemies.
“Please don’t go—don’t leave me—there’s so much blood?—”
Her voice breaks on the last word, and something in my chest cracks with it.
I reach for her more firmly this time, trying to still her movements. “Vera, wake up. You’re safe. It’s just a dream.”
My hands close around her shoulders, and she jerks violently, her eyes flying open. For a moment, she just stares at me—wild, disoriented, terror written across every feature. Then recognition dawns, and she gasps like she’s been drowning.
“Dimitri?” Her voice is hoarse from crying.
“You were having a nightmare,” I say roughly, hating how much she’s hurting.
She blinks, and I watch reality filter back in as she realizes where she is, that she’s safe, and whatever horror she was reliving isn’t real. Tears stream down her face, and she's shaking so hard I can feel it through my grip on her shoulders.
“I twisted his wrist in my sleep,” she whispers, and my brow furrows. Is she losing it? What she’s saying isn’t making sense. But then I see blood on the sheets. She’s scratched herself in her thrashing, opening up the delicate skin of her wrist. It’s not deep, but enough to bleed.
“Let me see.” I take her hand gently, examining the wound. It’s superficial and just needs cleaning and a bandage. But she’s shaking so hard she might hurt herself worse. “Stay still.”
I head to the bathroom, and grab the first aid kit I know is under the sink. I return to find her still sitting exactly where I left her, staring at nothing. Lost in whatever nightmare she just escaped.
I sit beside her again, carefully cleaning the wound. She doesn’t even flinch when the antiseptic stings. She sits there, shaking, and silently crying.
“It was about him,” she finally whispers. “About Alexei. Being at the warehouse. I keep seeing it—the blood, the way he looked at me, how he tried to tell me something but couldn’t because—” Her voice breaks completely.
Every instinct I have tells me to maintain distance, finish bandaging her wrist, tell her she’s fine, and leave. That’s what I should do.
But I can’t.
Maybe it’s the way she's shaking. Maybe it’s the lost look in her eyes. Maybe it’s because I have nightmares about thatwarehouse too—about finding Alexei’s body, about being too late, about failing to protect him.
Maybe it’s all of those things.
I pull her into my arms.
She stiffens immediately—afraid of me even now, even in this moment—and that stings more than it should. But then she’s sobbing into my chest, her whole body shaking with the force of it, and she’s clinging to me like I’m the only solid thing in a world that’s crumbling.
“Shh,” I murmur, my hand coming up to stroke her hair which is so soft. The gesture feels foreign and awkward. I’m not good at this. “You’re safe. It was just a dream.”
“He was dying and I couldn’t—I couldn’t help him—there was so much blood?—”
“I know.” And I do. God, I do. I’ve had the same nightmare a hundred times. “But it’s over now. He’s gone. You can’t save him.” I swallow heavily. “Neither of us can.”
The words should be harsh, but they come out gentle instead. It’s an acknowledgment of shared grief, guilt, and helplessness in the face of loss.
We stay like that—her sobbing into my chest, me holding her, both of us trying to breathe through the pain—until her tears finally start to subside and her breathing evens out and the shaking becomes less violent.
“Sorry,” she whispers against my shirt. “I’m sorry for waking you.”
“No.” My arms tighten around her, stroking the bare skin of her arms. “Don’t apologize for having nightmares about watching the man you loved die.”
She pulls back slightly, looking up at me. Her face is flushed from crying, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Tear tracks streak down her cheeks, catching the moon light. Her hair falls in messy waves around her shoulders and she’s wearing a simple cotton nightgown that’s twisted around her body from all the movement.
She looks destroyed. Like someone who’s been through hell and barely made it out alive.
