“I’m here.” I rush to his side, pushing the hair from his forehead. “Right here.”
He lifts to his elbows, chest heaving. His gaze skips around the room before finally landing on me. Relief hits his face so hard his shoulders sag.
His voice shakes. “Shit. Your lamp. I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay. It was ugly anyway”
His breath shudders out of him as he drags a trembling hand through his hair. His eyes are still wild as he takes in reality inch by inch.
“Can I touch you?” I ask.
He swallows, wrestling with it.
“Please,” I say. I need the comfort of his skin as much as I want to give it to him.
When he finally reaches for me, it’s tentative. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I don’t waste a second crawling into his lap pressing my palms to his face. “Are you hurt? Your burn or ribs?”
He pauses for a second, assessing. “No. I think—I think I’m okay.”
And then he folds around me, pulling me close, breath trembling against my skin.
Nothing about this is okay. I’m not okay, and he’s certainly not okay. He’s hurting, and I don’t think there’s anything I can do except be here.
“Do you remember the nightmare?”
He shakes his head. “Sometimes I do. There are nights where it’s so vivid I can still smell the smoke when I wake, and there are others when it’s completely blank after—a black hole, but the feeling is still there. Tonight, it’s the latter.”
“Rory?”
His jaw ticks. “Yeah.” His throat bobs. “Last time, it was you.”
My chest caves in a little.
I’ve seen PTSD before. Patients. Coworkers. Flight crews who carried terrible things home with them. But seeing it like this—seeing what it does to him—is something else entirely.
He lives with this.Sleepswith it. Carries it everywhere he goes.
And I don’t think he wants help nearly as much as he thinks he deserves the punishment.
“Have you ever really talked to someone about it?” I ask softly.
“Sure.” He won’t look at me. He’s curled up, but his head is buried in my chest. “Lots of people.”
“Recently.”
“No.” For a beat, it’s all I think he’s going to offer—there’s acceptance and finality in the word—but then he starts again, sounding hollow. “It’s never helped before.”
“Maybe you weren’t ready before.”
His laugh is wet against my shirt. “Ready for what?”
“To accept the help. To recover.”
His lips press together, and he shakes his head sharply. “I don’t deserve to forgive myself.”
PTSD recovery happens on its own timeline, and only when the person suffering wants help badly enough to fight for it.
