“Don’t move!” I bark, voice low but lethal.
There’s a pause. A breath.
And then Nell steps into a sliver of light. Half-asleep, hair a mess, one of my shirts hanging off her shoulder. Confused. Frozen.
She doesn’t register me, she’s lost deep in sleep, but her face is knotted with pain. Silent tears streak her flushed cheeks, and she cradles herself as she paces the room in slow, shuffling loops. Muttering nonsense.
“Nell?” My voice cuts softly through the space. But there’s no response—just more broken fragments of words, scattered like static.
She’s having a night terror. I’m almost certain of it. And if I remember rightly, waking her could make it worse.
Still, I watch her like she’s glass ready to splinter.
Is it Adam? Some echo of what he did, buried too deep to die quietly? I want to know. I want to tear it all apart until I understand every shadow living in her head.
But I don’t have time to wonder.
She spins, moving to the drawers. Starts yanking them open in a desperate frenzy. There’s no logic in her movements, just raw panic as she tears through them like she’s searching for something stolen.
The tall unit rocks under her weight—unbalanced, top-heavy. Teetering on the edge of crushing her flat.
I lunge forward before it can tip.
“Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
She’s a hazard wide awake—unconscious, she’s twice as dangerous. But she doesn’t fight me, she just lets me guide her like muscle memory’s all she’s running on.
Getting her there is one thing. Getting her tostaythere? That’s another.
I barely make it back to my own room before I hear her again—shuffling footsteps, dragging blankets, that lost-somewhere-else muttering that twists something inside me tight. She’s heading for the same damn room. Like whatever she’s reliving is pulling her there on a leash.
So, I give up.
I return her to bed for the final time and sit beside her. She’s sobbing now, low and broken, still caught in whatever memory won’t let go. Boomerang watches from the corner like this is all just part of the evening routine—another night, another haunting.
And maybe it is.
I haven’t shared a bed with anyone since Kyla. The thought alone knocks something loose inside me—something rusted over and cold.Loneliness. Real and sharp. The kind that doesn’t need noise to scream.
I lie back and pull Nell between my legs, into my chest, careful but certain. Tuck the blanket around us both like I can protect her from whatever follows her down into sleep. The headboard is unforgiving against my back, but I’ll take the discomfort if it means she falls back into a soundless sleep.
She’s fragile. That much is obvious. But something about being held—about being seen even without waking—softens her. Her breathing evens out. The shaking slows.
She still twitches. Still fights some invisible war behind her eyes.
But she’s not crying anymore.
And that feels like a win.
29
Nell
I wake to warmth.
Soft. Steady. Unfamiliar.
It takes a moment for the pieces to slot into place—blanket tucked tight around me, arm curved protectively across my waist, the solid weight of a body pressed behind mine.
