"I asked you to stay," I remind him. "And I don't regret it. You had a nightmare. It happens."
"Not to normal people," he says bitterly.
"Good thing neither of us is normal then."
That gets a small, broken laugh out of him. He slumps back against the couch, looking exhausted. "I haven't had one that bad in a while. Thought I was past the worst of it."
"What was it about?" I ask, then immediately regret the question. "Sorry. You don't have to tell me. That was invasive."
"No, it's..." He takes a shaky breath. "It's always the same. The explosion. Watching my friends die. Except in the nightmare, I can't move. I'm frozen, and I'm screaming at them to get down, to move, but they can't hear me. And then—" He stops, his jaw clenching. "And then they're gone. Every time."
My heart breaks for him. For the weight he's carrying, the guilt and trauma and survivor's remorse all tangled together into something that haunts him even in sleep.
"I'm sorry," I say. "That sounds horrible."
"It is what it is." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I should probably go back to my cottage. Let you get some actual sleep without me waking you up with my shit."
"You don't have to leave," I say, surprising myself. "Unless you want to. But if you're worried about me... don't be. I'm okay."
He looks at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm just being polite or if I mean it. "You sure? Because I can pretty much guarantee I'm not going back to sleep tonight. Once I have a nightmare like that, my brain won't let me rest."
"Then I'll stay up with you," I offer. "I'll make tea."
"Claire—"
"I'll make tea," I say again, already moving toward the kitchenette before he can protest further. "And you're going to sit there and not feel guilty about having a completely normal response to trauma. Deal?"
He's quiet for a moment, then: "You're bossy when you're trying to be nice."
"Yeah, well, get used to it." I fill the kettle and set it to boil, then turn back to him. "Do you want to talk about it? The nightmare, or the explosion, or just... anything? Sometimes talking helps."
"Sometimes it doesn't," he says, but there's no hostility in his voice. Just bone-deep weariness. "Sometimes talking about it just makes me relive it more vividly."
"Okay. Then we won't talk about it. We'll talk about something else. Something that doesn't involve explosions or trauma or any of the heavy shit."
"Like what?"
I lean against the counter, trying to think of something light. Normal. The kind of conversation two people who are getting to know each other might actually have. "Like... what's your favorite food?"
He blinks at me. "My favorite food?"
"Yeah. Simple question. What do you like to eat?"
A small smile tugs at his lips. "Wade's chili. You had it tonight. That's probably my favorite."
"Okay. Good answer. Favorite movie?"
"I don't really watch movies."
"Everyone watches movies."
"I work," he says. "And when I'm not working, I'm usually too tired to focus on a movie."
"That's depressing," I tell him. "We're going to fix that. You need hobbies beyond spreadsheets."
"Yes, ma'am," he says, and this time the smile reaches his eyes. "What about you? What's your favorite movie?"
"The Notebook," I say without hesitation. "I know it's cheesy, but my dad and I used to watch it together. He'd cry at the end every single time and try to hide it. Said something about 'damn allergies' even though we both knew he was lying."
