“Jesus Christ, Eli.” His voice shakes, and the worry in his eyes makes my stomach twist.
He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a warm washcloth, carefully wiping the blood from my skin. The scratches sting, but he says nothing. He goes back to the bathroom, returning with ointment and plasters, smoothing the cream over the worst of it and covering them carefully. Thegentleness in every movement feels like something I’m still not used to receiving.
When he’s done, he sits on the edge of the bed, waiting, asking without words. I lift the blankets, and he climbs in beside me.
His arm settles around my waist. I place my hands on his chest and focus on his heartbeat. The steady rhythm anchors me, and my breathing starts to slow.
“I’m okay, CJ.”
He nods, but he doesn’t answer.
The silence feels wrong. Then I hear it: a quiet sniff.
My hand lifts to his face, and I realize my Sunshine is crying. Seeing him break because of me feels like a punch straight to the heart.
“I’m okay, CJ,” I whisper again. This time I’m not trying to convince myself; I’m trying to convince him.
CJ stays quiet for a moment. “Your screams reminded me of someone,” he says finally, “someone close to me.”
His voice catches, like it’s snagging on something he’s spent years trying not to touch.
“He died. I’ll never forget those screams. My screams.” A cold ache settles beneath my ribs as his grief sits heavy in the space between us.
After a long silence, he continues. “His name was Charlie. He was my partner.”
“Your partner?” I ask softly. “Like in the army?”
He shakes his head. “Yes. But we were together. I loved him.” He swallows hard. “He was killed on a mission three years ago.”
I place my hand back on his chest and rest my forehead against his, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t. Before long, I hear the soft rhythm of him drifting into sleep, a quiet snore slipping out between breaths.
I close my eyes, lean in, and press a gentle kiss to his nose: a promise I don’t know how to put into words.
Because in that moment, I realize I’m not the only one carrying ghosts.
I lay listening as CJ told me about Charlie, and I could see the sorrow and the guilt still st heavy in his chest. When exhaustion finally pulled us under, we drifted off wrapped tightly together, promising protection to each other, in a world that offered none.
* * *
When I wake the next morning, CJ has me tucked against him: one arm draped over my waist, my back pressed against his chest.
For a moment, I don’t move. I just breathe him in. His warmth behind me feels like absolute safety. I glance down at the scratches on my arms, then brush my fingers over my face where the plasters sit raised against my skin.
CJ’s breathing is warm against the back of my neck: slow and steady. He’s still asleep.
Being curled into him feels like the most natural thing in the world. He shifts behind me, letting out a low groan, and a smile tugs at my mouth. His arm tightens around me, possessive and firm. The wordmineflickers through my mind, but it doesn’t frighten me the way it used to; instead, a quiet warmth spreads through me.
CJ exhales against my neck. “You’re thinking too loud,” he mutters, his voice thick with sleep, his teasing pulling me back into the moment.
I laugh softly. “Oh, you can hear my thoughts now?”
“Unfortunately.” I feel his smile against my shoulder. “You make a lot of noise for someone lying perfectly still.”
I shake my head and slip out of bed. The room is cold, and CJ grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like a complaint about me leaving before burying himself deeper under the blankets.
I leave him and head for the bathroom. The mirror is brutal: red scratches, plasters, pale skin, swollen eyes. The reflection is a stark reminder of everything I’m still fighting.
I look absolutely fucking wrecked, and not in a good way. That’s when last night hits me again: the nightmare, the message, the panic. Deck and Finn were there, too, though I’m not entirely sure what was real and what my brain stitched together.
