22. Freya
— ? —
Freya
The storm knocked out the power, and I woke up screaming.
The nightmare was the same one I’d been having for weeks.
My mother’s face, pale in her hospital bed.
The sound of machines beeping, then going silent.
Her hand in mine, cold and still. And then the room would shift, and suddenly it wasn’t my mother anymore.
It was me in the bed, and the baby was crying somewhere I couldn’t reach, and Rex was standing in the doorway with his back turned, walking away.
I sat up in the dark, gasping for breath, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. Thunder shook the house, and lightning split the sky outside my window, turning everything white for a split second before plunging me back into darkness.
The guest room felt enormous. Too big, too empty, and too far from everything that mattered.
Before I could think about it, I was out of bed and walking down the hall.
Rex’s door was open. Not all the way, just a crack, like mine had been for the past week. I pushed it wider and stepped inside.
“Freya?” His voice came from the darkness, rough with something that wasn’t quite sleep. “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”
“Nightmare.” My voice came out smaller than I intended. “I had a nightmare.”
I heard him move, the rustle of sheets, and then he was there, a warm presence in the dark. His hand found my arm, gentle and steady.
“Come here,” he said softly. “Come sit down.”
He guided me to the bed, and I sank onto the edge of the mattress, still shaking. Lightning flashed again, illuminating his face for a moment. Worried, tender, completely focused on me.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
“It was my mom. It’s always my mom.” I wrapped my arms around myself. “She’s in the hospital, and I’m holding her hand, and then suddenly it’s me instead. And the baby’s crying but I can’t find her, and you’re…” My voice broke. “You’re leaving. You’re walking away and you won’t turn around.”
Rex was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me tight.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said against my hair. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving.”
“I know that. It’s just the stupid hormones making everything feel too big.”
“It’s not stupid. Nothing you feel is stupid.” He held me while the storm raged outside, his heartbeat steady under my ear. “Stay here tonight. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“Rex…”
“Just to sleep. Nothing else. I just want to know you’re okay.”
I should have reminded him about the rules, the boundaries, the careful distance I was trying to maintain. But I was tired of being strong. Tired of pretending I didn’t need him. Tired of sleeping alone in a room that felt too big while he was right down the hall.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Just to sleep.”
He settled me under the covers, tucking the blankets around me like I was something precious. Then he paused.
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Trust me.”
He disappeared into the darkness. A few minutes later, he returned carrying two mugs that steamed in the dim light.
“Hot cocoa,” he said, handing me one. “My mother’s housekeeper used to make it for me when I had nightmares as a kid. It’s the only thing that helped.”
I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic, breathing in the rich chocolate scent. “You had nightmares?”
“All the time. Until I was twelve or thirteen.” He climbed into bed beside me, keeping a careful distance, his own mug cradled in his hands. “I used to dream that I was drowning. That I was sinking deeper and deeper and no one could hear me calling for help.”
“That’s awful.”
“It was.” He took a sip of his cocoa. “Martha, that was the housekeeper, she’d find me wandering the halls at two in the morning, crying. She never told my parents. She’d just take me to the kitchen, make cocoa, and sit with me until I felt safe enough to sleep again.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She was. Passed away when I was in college.” His voice was soft with old grief. “I think about her sometimes. Wonder what she’d think of the man I turned out to be.”
“She’d be proud.”
“I’m not sure about that. I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”
“Everyone makes mistakes.” I shifted closer to him, our shoulders touching. “It’s what you do after that matters. And you’re trying, Rex. Really trying. That counts for something.”
We sat in comfortable silence, drinking our cocoa while the storm rolled over the house. The thunder was softer now, moving away. The lightning came less frequently. Outside, the rain settled into a steady rhythm against the windows.
“This is nice,” I said eventually. “I forgot how nice this could be. Just… being with you.”
“We didn’t do enough of this when we were together,” Rex admitted. “I was always working, always distracted. I didn’t make time for the quiet moments.”
“We’re making time now.”
“Yeah.” He took my empty mug and set both of them on the nightstand. “We are.”
I yawned, the warmth of the cocoa and the comfort of his presence finally catching up with me. The nightmare felt distant now, like something that had happened to someone else.
“Lie down,” Rex said. “Try to sleep. I’ll be right here.”
I settled against the pillows, and he lay down beside me, close but not touching. The space between us felt charged, full of possibility, but also safe. Patient. Like we had all the time in the world to figure out what came next.
“Rex?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For the cocoa. For letting me stay.”
“You never have to thank me for that.” His hand found mine in the darkness, his fingers lacing through mine. “This is where you belong.”
I fell asleep holding his hand, the sound of rain against the windows and the steady rhythm of his breathing lulling me into dreams that were soft and warm and held no fear at all.
When I woke up, the storm had passed. Early morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and golden. At some point during the night, we’d shifted closer together, my head on his chest, his arm around my shoulders, our bodies curved toward each other.
I should have extracted myself carefully and retreated to the guest room before he woke up. But he was so warm, and I was so comfortable, and for the first time in months, I’d slept without nightmares.
“You’re awake,” Rex murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
“How did you know?”
“Your breathing changed.” His arm tightened around me slightly. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Better than I have in weeks.”
“Good.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “That’s good.”
We lay there as the morning brightened around us, neither of us in any hurry to move. His hand traced lazy patterns on my arm, and I listened to his heartbeat.
“I could get used to this,” I admitted quietly.
“I hope you do.”
Tilting my head back, I looked at him. His hair was mussed, pillow lines creased into his cheek, and he was looking at me with so much tenderness it made my chest ache.
“I love you,” he said. “You’re not ready to say it back, and that’s okay. I just need you to know.”
I kissed him softly instead of answering. When I pulled back, he was smiling.
“I know,” I said.
He blinked. Then he started laughing, really laughing, his whole body shaking with it. “Did you just Han Solo me?”
“It seemed appropriate.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love me anyway.”
“I really do.” He was still grinning, his eyes bright with happiness. “I can’t believe you Han Solo’d me. I’m going to remember this forever.”
“Good. You deserve it.”
The laughter faded into something softer. We both knew what was hanging in the air between us. He’d said it. I hadn’t. Not yet.
“Soon,” I whispered. “I’m almost there. I just need a little more time.”
He pulled me closer, tucking my head under his chin. “I’ll wait as long as it takes. I’m not going anywhere, Freya. Not ever again.”
We stayed in bed until the sun was fully up, talking about nothing and everything. About the baby, about the nursery he wanted to build, about names we liked and names we didn’t. About the future we were slowly, carefully, learning to believe in.
When we finally got up, he made me breakfast, scrambled eggs with cheese, just the way I liked them, and I sat at the kitchen counter watching him move around the space like he belonged there. Like we belonged there, together.
The guest room door stayed closed that night.
And the night after.
And the night after that.