Chapter 14 Tasha
fourteen
tasha
The sheets still held the warmth of our bodies, tangled together in the soft darkness of Nate's bedroom.
I drifted in that peaceful space between sleep and wakefulness, muscles pleasantly sore, mind unusually quiet.
It had been good. It had been better than good.
The careful control Nate maintained in every aspect of his life translated to a focused intensity that left me breathless.
But there had been tenderness too, vulnerability in his eyes that I hadn't expected.
A slight movement beside me drew me partway back to consciousness. Nate shifted in his sleep. I reached for him without opening my eyes, palm finding the solid warmth of his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.
The rhythm that suddenly wasn't steady at all.
His breathing changed first—quickening, becoming shallow. Then his body tensed beside me, muscles coiling like springs. A small sound escaped him, something between a whimper and a groan.
"Nate?" I murmured, still half-asleep.
He jerked suddenly, violently. His arm flung out, narrowly missing my face.
I sat up, fully awake now, switching immediately to assessment mode. His heart was racing; he was breathing fast and shallow, sweating profusely.
"No," he mumbled, head thrashing on the pillow. "No... get me an evac... bleeding out..."
My stomach dropped as understanding dawned. PTSD. Not just the garden variety stress reaction, this was a full-blown episode.
"Nate," I said, more firmly this time, but careful not to touch him. Startling someone in this state could be dangerous— for both of us. "Nate, you're having a nightmare. You're safe. You're home."
"Can't stop the bleeding." His voice was different—younger, desperate. Tears leaked from the corners of his closed eyes. "Muta'asif... muta'asif..."
I didn't recognize the words, but the anguish was universal.
"She's just a kid," he choked out. "Thompson, NO!"
His body convulsed, back arching off the bed. I hit the bedside lamp switch, flooding the room with sudden light. Nate's eyes were open now, but unseeing, fixed on horrors I couldn't perceive.
"Nate," I said, keeping my voice calm but firm. "Nate, honey. It's Tasha. You're at home. You're safe. It's 2025. We’re in your bedroom."
His eyes darted around the room, wild and confused. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.
"I need you to breathe with me," I continued, making my own breathing deliberate and audible. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
Slowly, agonizingly, he began to come back. His eyes focused, found mine, recognition dawning with visible relief and then—worse—shame.
"Tasha." His voice was raw. "I—I'm so sorry."
"No, sweetie, no. Don’t apologize," I said, keeping my tone light and warm despite the ache in my chest. "I've woken up screaming about forgetting to study for exams. Your nightmares are at least justified."
He sat up, drawing his knees to his chest in an unconsciously protective gesture that reminded me so much of Paige that my throat tightened. He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to erase the evidence of tears.
"That hasn't happened in... a while," he said finally.
I waited, giving him space, though every instinct urged me to pull him into my arms.
"What were you saying?" I asked after a moment. "It sounded like... 'muta' something?"
"Muta'asif," he said softly. "It's Arabic. It means 'I'm sorry.'"
The words hung in the quiet room. I reached out slowly, telegraphing my movement, and placed my hand on his arm. The muscles beneath my fingers were still rigid with tension.
"Iraq?" I asked simply.
He nodded, eyes fixed on some middle distance.
"I was nineteen. Almost twenty. Just a stupid kid who thought I was invincible.
" His laugh was hollow. "I volunteered to go.
Didn't want to be stuck on some ship in the middle of the ocean.
Pretty dumb idea to join the Navy, I guess, but I wasn't exactly thinking things through back then. "
I let the silence stretch, knowing he needed to find his own way through this.
"Most of my time there was... I don't want to say routine, because there's nothing routine about war.
But it was sporadic. You'd go weeks with nothing, then suddenly you're taking fire.
You kind of get used to people taking shots at you.
" His voice took on a detached quality. "You can't leave the compound without expecting an improvised explosive device attack.
But it wasn't... it wasn't sustained combat. "
His hand found mine, fingers intertwining almost desperately.
"Then they came asking for volunteers. They didn’t have enough corpsmen for an operation.”
A tear slipped down his cheek, and this time he didn't try to hide it.
"I wasn't prepared. None of us were. Not for Fallujah."
The horror in his voice made me shiver despite the warmth of the room.
I'd heard about Fallujah, of course. But it had only just barely made it into my American History class in high school. It wasn’t really real, it was just another entry in a textbook.
Not something that had marked the man beside me so deeply that two decades years later, he still couldn't escape it in his dreams.
"They told us it was clear of civilians, but there were..." His voice caught. "There was a little girl."
Understanding clicked into place—the nightmare, the desperate pleas, the Arabic apology. The little girl from Iraq and his fierce protection of Paige. The pieces of Nate Crawford suddenly aligned in a way that made my chest ache.
"You don't have to tell me," I said softly.
"I do," he insisted. "I need to. I've never... I've never told anyone. Not really. Not everything."
I nodded, shifting closer to him, our sides touching. An anchor to the present as he revisited the past.
And then he told me. Everything. The clearing operation in Fallujah.
The insurgents using a family as human shields.
Thompson firing at movement. The little girl in the pink shirt.
His desperate attempts to save her. The parents' anguish. The Arabic words he’d hastily memorized from a military phrasebook. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
By the time he finished, tears were flowing freely down his face, and his body shook with the force of emotions long suppressed. I didn't hesitate now—I pulled him against me, his head on my shoulder, his tears warm against my skin.
"I couldn't save her," he whispered. "I was supposed to save people. That was my job. But I couldn't save her."
"You tried," I said, threading my fingers through his hair. "Nate, you tried everything possible."
"It wasn't enough."
The words hung between us, and suddenly I understood so much more about him. His obsessive preparation for every aspect of Paige's life. His rigid control. His reluctance to let anyone else in.
"Is that why you push yourself so hard with Paige?" I asked gently. "Because you couldn't save that little girl?"
He stiffened slightly, then relaxed with a shuddering exhale. "Maybe. Probably. I don't know." His voice was muffled against my shoulder. "I just know I can't fail her. I can't... I can't let anything happen to her."
"You haven't," I assured him. "You haven't failed her. She's amazing, Nate. She's smart and kind and resilient. That's because of you."
He pulled back slightly, eyes searching mine with a vulnerability that made my heart twist. "You think so?"
"I know so. And I'm a pretty good judge of character."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Since when?"
"Hey," I nudged him gently, relieved at the tiny spark of humor. "I chose you, didn't I?"
His smile faded, replaced by something more serious, more intense. "Why did you? Choose me, I mean."
The question caught me off guard. Why had I? I'd spent so long keeping everyone at arm's length, protecting myself with sarcasm and attitude. But somehow, this serious, damaged, beautiful man had gotten under my defenses.
"Because you see me," I said finally. "The real me.
Not the facade. And because..." I hesitated, then decided he'd been brave enough tonight to deserve my honesty.
"Because I see you too. All of you. The nightmares and the spreadsheets and the fierce way you love your daughter.
And I think all of it is... worth choosing. "
His eyes widened slightly, something like wonder crossing his face. For a moment, I thought he might cry again. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed me—softly, reverently, like I was something precious.
When we broke apart, I could see exhaustion etched in the lines of his face. "You should try to sleep," I said.
Fear flickered in his eyes. "The dreams might come back."
"I'll be right here," I promised. "I'm not going anywhere."
I guided him back down to the pillows, pulling the sheet over us both. He curled toward me, his head resting against my chest, arm draped across my waist. I stroked his hair, humming softly, some half-remembered lullaby my grandmother used to sing.
As his breathing finally evened out into sleep, I stared up at the ceiling, my mind racing. This wasn't what I'd signed up for. This was complicated, messy, far beyond the casual relationship I'd convinced myself I wanted.
But as I felt Nate's steady heartbeat against my side, I realized with startling clarity that I didn't want casual. Not with him. I wanted this—all of it. The nightmares and the healing. The pain and the joy.
I wanted to be the person he could fall apart with.
And somehow, that was the most terrifying and beautiful realization I'd ever had.