The last words come out cracked and small.
Beau reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “You should get some sleep powder from Renaud’s,” he saysafter a moment. “It helped me a lot when my dreams were bad. I don’t have nightmares anymore.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t know if sleep powder will help with this.”
“It might.”
“What if it just makes me sleep deeper so I can’t wake myself up?”
Beau’s fingers tighten around mine. “That’s not how it works.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t.” He gives me a level look. “But Idoknow you look like you’re about five minutes away from face-planting into a muffin display, and if that happens, Talon will blame himself and Wick will probably lock you in a back room until you sleep for seventy-two hours.”
The image is almost funny enough to make me smile. Almost.
I scrub a hand over my face. “I can’t let Talon know how bad it is.”
“Why not?”
If Talon knows, then it becomes real in a way I can’t control. I’m already taking so much from him. His time, his attention, his tenderness, his patience. If I hand him my nightmares too, I’m terrified he’d hate me and how needy I am. “Because I don’t want him worrying,” I say instead.
Beau raises one eyebrow so high it nearly disappears into his curls. “He’s already worrying.”
I open my mouth. Close it. He has me there.
“He doesn’t need details,” I mutter.
“He’s your partner, Wren. You don’t have to tell him everything today. But you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I don’t answer. Because the truth is, I don’t know anything except that every time night falls, I feel like I’m trapped and powerless and waiting to be released.
“Wren,” Wick calls from behind the counter.
I flinch so hard my knee bangs against the table.
Beau winces.
“Sorry, gotta go.” I push to my feet too fast and the room tips sideways. Black dots swarm the edges of my vision. I grab the back of the chair before my legs can fold under me. “Oh. That’s… not ideal.”
Beau is out of his seat instantly, one hand on my elbow. “Sit back down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
“I have to get back to work.”
Wick calls my name again, sharper this time, and I manage to untangle myself from Beau’s grip.
Every step toward the counter feels wrong. The floor shifts under my feet as if I’m walking on a dock instead of solid wood. My body is heavy and floaty at the same time. My hands shake. The overhead lights seem brighter than they were a minute ago, glaring against the polished pastry case until I have to squint.
Wick’s mouth presses into a grim line as I approach. He takes one look at me and whatever he’d been about to say vanishes. Instead, he reaches under the counter and sets a small paper bag in front of me.
