Chapter 6 - Claire
I wake up to the sound of someone screaming "No!"
I stumble out of the bedroom into the moonlit living room. Rhett is on the couch, his body rigid, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His head thrashes back and forth on the pillow.
"Get down!" he shouts, his voice raw with terror. "Fuck. Get down, get down—"
He's still asleep. Trapped in whatever hell his mind has dragged him back to. I freeze for a second, my own heart racing. What do I do? How do I help? I have no experience with this, no idea how to handle someone in the grip of trauma.
Rhett's arm shoots out suddenly, punching at something invisible. His breathing is ragged, panicked. "No, no, no—"
I can't just stand here. I can't watch him suffer like this without trying to help, even if I have no idea what I'm doing.
"Rhett," I say, taking a step closer. My voice comes out smaller than I intended. "Rhett, it's okay. You're safe."
He doesn't respond. Doesn't even seem to hear me.
His body is locked in the nightmare, muscles tense like he's preparing for impact.
I take another step. Then another. My hands are shaking, and I know that if he swings again while I'm this close, he could hit me.
Not on purpose, but in the grip of a nightmare, he might not know I'm here.
But I can't leave him like this. I won't.
"Rhett," I try again, louder this time. "Wake up. You're at the ranch. You're safe."
Still nothing. He's muttering something now, words I can't quite make out, his voice thick with anguish.
Okay. New plan. I remember reading somewhere that you're not supposed to shake someone awake from a nightmare, that it can make things worse, make them more disoriented. But I have to do something.
I inch closer until I'm right beside the couch, close enough to touch him but staying just out of range of his arms. His face is contorted with fear and pain, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night air.
Taking a deep breath, I reach out and pinch his cheek. Not hard, just enough pressure to hopefully pull him out of the nightmare without startling him too badly.
His eyes snap open immediately.
For a second, he just stares at me, his breathing harsh and fast, his expression confused and wild. Then recognition floods his features, followed quickly by horror.
"Fuck," he gasps, sitting up so fast he nearly knocks into me. "Fuck, Claire, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Did I… Did I hurt you?"
"No," I say quickly, taking a step back to give him space. "You didn't touch me. You were having a nightmare."
He runs both hands through his hair, his chest still heaving. "Jesus. I didn't mean to wake you. I thought—I usually don't—" He stops, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "Fuck. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing," I say, my voice gentler now. "You don't have to apologize for having PTSD. It's not your fault."
He drops his hands and looks at me, and even in the dim moonlight I can see the shame written across his face. "This is exactly why I shouldn't have stayed. You shouldn't have to deal with this shit."
"I asked you to stay," I remind him. "And I don't regret it. You had a nightmare. It happens."
"Not to normal people," he says bitterly.
"Good thing neither of us is normal then."
That gets a small, broken laugh out of him. He slumps back against the couch, looking exhausted. "I haven't had one that bad in a while. Thought I was past the worst of it."
"What was it about?" I ask, then immediately regret the question. "Sorry. You don't have to tell me. That was invasive."
"No, it's..." He takes a shaky breath. "It's always the same.
The explosion. Watching my friends die. Except in the nightmare, I can't move.
I'm frozen, and I'm screaming at them to get down, to move, but they can't hear me.
And then—" He stops, his jaw clenching. "And then they're gone. Every time."
My heart breaks for him. For the weight he's carrying, the guilt and trauma and survivor's remorse all tangled together into something that haunts him even in sleep.
"I'm sorry," I say. "That sounds horrible."
"It is what it is." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I should probably go back to my cottage. Let you get some actual sleep without me waking you up with my shit."
"You don't have to leave," I say, surprising myself. "Unless you want to. But if you're worried about me... don't be. I'm okay."
He looks at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm just being polite or if I mean it. "You sure? Because I can pretty much guarantee I'm not going back to sleep tonight. Once I have a nightmare like that, my brain won't let me rest."
"Then I'll stay up with you," I offer. "I'll make tea."
"Claire—"
"I'll make tea," I say again, already moving toward the kitchenette before he can protest further. "And you're going to sit there and not feel guilty about having a completely normal response to trauma. Deal?"
He's quiet for a moment, then: "You're bossy when you're trying to be nice."
"Yeah, well, get used to it." I fill the kettle and set it to boil, then turn back to him. "Do you want to talk about it? The nightmare, or the explosion, or just... anything? Sometimes talking helps."
"Sometimes it doesn't," he says, but there's no hostility in his voice. Just bone-deep weariness. "Sometimes talking about it just makes me relive it more vividly."
"Okay. Then we won't talk about it. We'll talk about something else. Something that doesn't involve explosions or trauma or any of the heavy shit."
"Like what?"
I lean against the counter, trying to think of something light. Normal. The kind of conversation two people who are getting to know each other might actually have. "Like... what's your favorite food?"
He blinks at me. "My favorite food?"
"Yeah. Simple question. What do you like to eat?"
A small smile tugs at his lips. "Wade's chili. You had it tonight. That's probably my favorite."
"Okay. Good answer. Favorite movie?"
"I don't really watch movies."
"Everyone watches movies."
"I work," he says. "And when I'm not working, I'm usually too tired to focus on a movie."
"That's depressing," I tell him. "We're going to fix that. You need hobbies beyond spreadsheets."
"Yes, ma'am," he says, and this time the smile reaches his eyes. "What about you? What's your favorite movie?"
"The Notebook," I say without hesitation. "I know it's cheesy, but my dad and I used to watch it together. He'd cry at the end every single time and try to hide it. Said something about 'damn allergies' even though we both knew he was lying."
Rhett's expression softens. "That's sweet. My foster dad, Frank, used to cry at the end of Old Yeller. Same excuse, allergies. We all knew better."
The kettle whistles, and I pour hot water over tea bags in two mugs. I bring them back to the living room, handing one to Rhett. But instead of settling into the armchair, I look at the couch. At him sitting there alone, still shaken from the nightmare.
"Scoot over," I say.
He blinks. "What?"
"You're not going to sleep. I'm not going to sleep. We might as well be comfortable." I gesture for him to move.
He shifts to one side of the couch, and I settle beside him, pulling my knees up to my chest. The oversized t-shirt I'm wearing, the one that barely reaches mid-thigh when I'm standing, stretches to cover my legs when I curl up like this.
It's only then that I realize I'm basically sitting next to him in my underwear and nothing else, but now it's too late to back out without making it weird.
"Is this okay?" I ask, suddenly uncertain.
"Yeah," he says, his voice a little rough. "It's okay."
I lean my head onto his shoulder, half-expecting him to tense up or pull away.
Instead, he shifts slightly, wrapping his arm around me.
His warmth seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt, somehow exactly what I need right now.
His breathing gradually slows, evening out, and I can feel some of the tension leaving his body.
"Thank you," he says. "For not making me feel like shit about this."
"You don't have to thank me," I say. "This is what people do. They show up for each other."
"Not everyone."
"Well, I'm not everyone." I adjust slightly, getting more comfortable against his side. "And you showed up for me when I had nowhere else to go. So, we're even."
He's quiet for a moment, then: "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"That scar." He gestures vaguely toward his own eyebrow. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I'm curious."
I touch the scar, running my finger along the thin white line.
"Kitchen knife. I was six. My dad told me not to play with it, and of course, I didn't listen.
Slipped and cut myself pretty badly. He rushed me to the hospital, stayed with me the whole time while they stitched me up.
He felt so guilty, like it was his fault for leaving the knife where I could reach it. "
"But it wasn't his fault."
"No. It was mine for being a stubborn kid who didn't listen.
But he never made me feel bad about it. Just held my hand while they stitched me up and told me I was the bravest girl he'd ever met.
" My throat tightens. "I kept the knife.
It's in my duffel bag. I know that's weird, but it's like.
.. It's a reminder of him. Of how much he loved me. "
"That's not weird," Rhett says. "I kept Frank's old pocket watch. Can't bring myself to wear it, but I can't get rid of it either."
"Then we're both sentimental idiots."
"Sounds about right."