I pull my knees to my chest like it’ll save me from my attacker. Then I feel strong, big hands grip my biceps, squeezing me so tight that I open my eyes.
It's the man from earlier.
The one with the blue, enchanting eyes.
Gavin.
“You’ve got some lungs,” he says hoarsely. “You’re okay.”
I stiffen, my body still shaking from the tremors. His hold intensifies gently; it steals me away from my panic attack.
He looks at me, worried, and doesn’t let his grip on my body falter as the last yelps die out brokenly. I don’t know why, but I trust him enough to let him help. It’s rare for me to find those types of people. After one conversation with them, I feel safe, and that’s how I feel with Gavin. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have already. Those green, highly texturized flecks in his vibrant blue console me, like a warm blanket. They flick side to side vehemently, searching for something deeper.
“I’m…I’m sorry. It was a bad dream.” I breathe out heavily.
He blinks at the lamp to my right side and lets me go. He reaches over me, his shoulder brushing against mine, allowing me to get a whiff of his scent—masculine, minty, and natural, kind of like the smell of pine. He pulls the metal string of a lamp, turning on the light.
He watches me intensely as I try to calm myself down with each deep breath.
He probably thinks I’m crazy. Hell, I think I’m going crazy.
I hadn’t realized I was crying until he brushes my cheek with the pad of his thumb, wiping my tear away horizontally until it’s nothing. I watch him watch me, until the dread dissolves away slowly.
His dark, disheveled locks caress his forehead, as if he were inthe middle of a deep sleep. I look down to realize he's not wearing a shirt, only black sweatpants. His chest hair hugs his pecs, and his ab muscles constrict as he breathes in and out. I’m freezing, dressed in layers of clothing, unable to feel my fingers entirely, but he’s shirtless. It’s probably because he’s used to these kinds of conditions.
“I’m sorry for waking you up.”
“Don’t apologize,” he replies instantly, still wearing an unreadable mask.
He shakes his head once and then reaches for my forehead. His fingers lift the bandage, like he’s checking if I’m healing alright.
“It doesn't hurt. Not anymore,” I murmur. Our bodies are so close I can smell him. He smells...good.
“Great.” He clears his throat as though he’s nervous. “You don’t know me, and I know this must be horrifying. You’ve been through a lot in the past few days, but it looked like you needed someone to bring you out of that nightmare. I know PTSD when I see it,” he says, inching further away on the edge of the bed. “I’m glad it doesn’t hurt.” He nods toward the top of my head. Then he places the bandage back in its place. He pushes me back down gently with his tight grip on my shoulders until my head falls back onto the pillow. He stands and takes a step back.
“Get some rest. I’ll be on the couch,” he says, spearing his hair with his hand and turning toward the door. “I’m sure you have a thousand questions running through your mind. I’ll answer all of them in the morning, but?—”
My anxiety spikes when I realize he’s going to leave.
I don’t want to be alone. I've never felt like this before. But that nightmare felt so real. Felt so vivid. It was more than just a figment of my imagination. It has to be a memory.
“How do you know about PTSD?” I blurt, cutting him off.
He stops walking and lifts a brow.
“What I’m trying to say is, have you had nights where you wake up screaming?” I ask.
I’m not surprised I’ve already developed some sort of fight or flight response. It has to be a symptom of my head injury.
He pivots on his feet until his attention is pinned on me.
“Worse.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Nights where I wake up unable to speak.”
I swallow. There’s an underlying pain attached to his deep voice. Even though his sleepy tone is doing a good job at hiding it, sadness flickers through his eyes. That’s when I see a clue into his life. Looking down, I spot a tattoo of the Navy SEAL trident on his bicep.
Is he in the military? A veteran?
“I’m going to get going. I have—” He takes another step toward the door, but I can’t help it. I’m in a cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, terrified that the man who ran me off the road is still here, lurking.
