"Rhett?" she calls out softly.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad I came here. Even if I'm scared shitless, I'm glad."
My chest tightens. "Me too, Claire. Me too."
I settle onto the couch, pulling the blanket over myself. The cottage is quiet except for the sound of Claire's breathing gradually evening out as she falls asleep. Through the cracked bedroom door, I can see a sliver of moonlight falling across the floor.
This is insane. All of it. I'm sleeping on a couch in a cottage next to a woman I barely know, lying to my family, pretending we have a history we don't have. Everything about this situation should feel wrong. But lying here in the dark, knowing Claire feels safe enough to sleep because I'm here, I think maybe, just maybe, it might actually work.
For the first time since I sent that first message to a stranger on a sketchy website, I let myself hope.
And then, exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster of the day, I close my eyes and fall asleep to the sound of Claire breathing peacefully in the next room.
Chapter 6 - Claire
I wake up to the sound of someone screaming "No!"
I stumble out of the bedroom into the moonlit living room. Rhett is on the couch, his body rigid, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His head thrashes back and forth on the pillow.
"Get down!" he shouts, his voice raw with terror. "Fuck. Get down, get down—"
He's still asleep. Trapped in whatever hell his mind has dragged him back to. I freeze for a second, my own heart racing. What do I do? How do I help? I have no experience with this, no idea how to handle someone in the grip of trauma.
Rhett's arm shoots out suddenly, punching at something invisible. His breathing is ragged, panicked. "No, no, no—"
I can't just stand here. I can't watch him suffer like this without trying to help, even if I have no idea what I'm doing.
"Rhett," I say, taking a step closer. My voice comes out smaller than I intended. "Rhett, it's okay. You're safe."
He doesn't respond. Doesn't even seem to hear me. His body is locked in the nightmare, muscles tense like he's preparing for impact. I take another step. Then another. My hands are shaking, and I know that if he swings again while I'm this close, he could hit me. Not on purpose, but in the grip of a nightmare, he might not know I'm here.
But I can't leave him like this. I won't.
"Rhett," I try again, louder this time. "Wake up. You're at the ranch. You're safe."
Still nothing. He's muttering something now, words I can't quite make out, his voice thick with anguish.
Okay. New plan. I remember reading somewhere that you're not supposed to shake someone awake from a nightmare, that it can make things worse, make them more disoriented. But I have to do something.
I inch closer until I'm right beside the couch, close enough to touch him but staying just out of range of his arms. His face is contorted with fear and pain, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night air.
Taking a deep breath, I reach out and pinch his cheek. Not hard, just enough pressure to hopefully pull him out of the nightmare without startling him too badly.
His eyes snap open immediately.
For a second, he just stares at me, his breathing harsh and fast, his expression confused and wild. Then recognition floods his features, followed quickly by horror.
"Fuck," he gasps, sitting up so fast he nearly knocks into me. "Fuck, Claire, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Did I… Did I hurt you?"
"No," I say quickly, taking a step back to give him space. "You didn't touch me. You were having a nightmare."
He runs both hands through his hair, his chest still heaving. "Jesus. I didn't mean to wake you. I thought—I usually don't—" He stops, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "Fuck. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing," I say, my voice gentler now. "You don't have to apologize for having PTSD. It's not your fault."
He drops his hands and looks at me, and even in the dim moonlight I can see the shame written across his face. "This is exactly why I shouldn't have stayed. You shouldn't have to deal with this shit."
