13. Maddie
Maddie
I don’t wake all the way. It’s that space in between—where I’m aware enough to know something has shifted, but not enough to pull myself fully out of the heaviness dragging me under.
The bed dips slightly, the movement small but noticeable, and for a second my body tenses before my mind can catch up, like it’s remembering something before I can stop it.
Then I hear him. “Let me stay.” His voice is low. Careful. Not the way he sounded earlier when everything around us felt too sharp, too loud. This is different. Softer. Like he’s holding something back even now. “Please.”
That word threads through the fog in my head, pulling me just a little closer to the surface. I don’t open my eyes. I don’t think about it.
“Stay,” I murmur, the word barely there, more breath than sound, but it’s enough. It’s all I have in me to give, and somehow it feels like more than that at the same time.
There’s a shift beside me. The quiet rustle of movement, the weight of him adjusting, and then the mattress dips deeper as he slides under the covers. And then—him.
His arm wraps around me, firm, immediate, like he doesn’t hesitate once he’s there.
Not loose. Not unsure. He pulls me into him with a kind of certainty that doesn’t ask if I’m okay with it, but doesn’t take either.
Like he already knows. Like he already decided.
My back presses against his chest, the heat of him seeping into me in a way that makes something inside me loosen before I can question it.
His hand settles at my waist, then shifts slightly, tightening just enough that I feel it—not restrictive, not trapping, just… there.
Holding. Anchoring.
His other hand comes up under my shoulders close enough that I can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing behind me, the rhythm of it slower than mine, deeper, like it’s meant to pull me into it without him saying a word.
And the way he holds me—It isn’t casual.
It isn’t light. There’s something tight in it.
Not painful. Not suffocating. Just… like if he loosens his grip even a little, I might slip away.
My body notices it before my mind does. The way I don’t pull away.
The way I don’t tense. The way I let myself settle into it instead.
That should feel strange. It doesn’t. It feels—safe.
I don’t let myself feel that easily. Not like this.
Not without thinking through it, weighing it, deciding if it’s something I can trust. But right now—I don’t do any of that.
I don’t question why his arms feel different.
Why being here, in his bed, wrapped up in him, makes something in my chest finally unclench in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
I don’t look at it too closely. Don’t try to understand it.
Because I know if I do, it will shift. It will turn into something bigger.
Something I won’t be able to ignore later. And right now—I don’t want to.
I just let myself stay here. Let myself feel the steady weight of him behind me, the warmth of his body pressed to mine, the way his hand tightens slightly every time I move like he’s checking, like he’s making sure I’m still there.
Still real. Still with him. My breathing starts to even out without me trying to force it, my body sinking deeper into the mattress, into him, into something that feels solid enough to hold me without asking anything in return.
The headache is still there. The ache in my face.
The memory of everything that happened tonight sitting just beneath the surface. But it feels farther away now.
Not gone. Just… quieter. Like it can’t reach me the same way from here.
My fingers curl slightly against the sheets, my body relaxing piece by piece, the tension I didn’t realize I was holding finally letting go in small, quiet ways.
And before I drift again—before sleep pulls me all the way under—one thought lingers, soft and steady in a way that doesn’t match anything else about tonight.
I haven’t felt this safe in a really long time. And I don’t let myself ask why.
It starts the same way it always does. Not with the moment itself, not with something I can stop before it gets too far, but with the feeling first—something wrong settling into my chest, something tightening before my mind catches up enough to understand why. Then the ground. Cold. Hard.
“Luka—” The name tears out of me before I’m fully awake, my body already reacting, already pushing up, my hands searching for something that isn’t there, something that should be.
Blood. Too much of it. My fingers slipping.
My voice breaking as I try to get him to respond, try to get him to move, to breathe, to do anything that tells me I didn’t get there too late this time.
“Luka—!” The scream rips through me—And then everything shifts. The cold disappears. The ground is gone. And I’m not alone.
Arms tighten around me, solid and immediate, pulling me back into something warm, something real, something that doesn’t disappear when I reach for it.
“It’s okay, Baby. I got you.”
Dean.
The sound of his voice cuts through everything still clawing at the edges of my mind, low and steady, close enough that I feel it more than I hear it at first. “I got you.”
The words settle differently the second time, slower, more deliberate, like he’s not just saying them, he’s anchoring them somewhere inside me that the nightmare hasn’t fully let go of yet.
My chest is tight, my breathing uneven, like my body hasn’t realized it’s not there anymore, hasn’t caught up to the fact that I’m not kneeling on concrete with my hands covered in something I can’t stop.
I press back into him without thinking. Not fully.
Not all the way. But enough. Enough that I feel the weight of him behind me, the way his arm tightens across me like he’s holding me in place, like he’s not letting anything pull me out of this bed and back into that moment again.
My hands curl against the sheets, grounding myself in something that feels different, something that doesn’t slip away the second I try to hold onto it.
His hand moves slowly along my arm, not rushed, not forcing anything, just there, steady in a way that gives my breathing something to follow instead of fight against. It takes a minute.
Maybe longer. I don’t know. Time feels different when I wake up like this.
Stretched. Unsteady. But eventually the tightness in my chest loosens enough that I can pull in a full breath without it catching halfway through.
Eventually the panic backs off just enough that I can feel the room again instead of the memory.
I shift slightly, pulling away from him without thinking about it too much, my body already moving toward the edge of the bed before I fully understand why.
I need space. I need—
“Where are you going?” His voice stops me. Not sharp. Not demanding. But it lands solid enough that I pause, my hand gripping the edge of the mattress as I glance back over my shoulder.
“I’ll just… sleep out in the living room,” I say, my voice quieter now, still rough around the edges of everything I just came out of. “So you can get some sleep. I know you’ve got an early day.”
It makes sense. It should. Putting distance between us. Giving him space. Letting him rest instead of pulling him into something that isn’t his to carry. But the second the words leave me, something shifts behind me.
Not loud. Not explosive. Just… firm. “Why the fuck would you do that?” The words aren’t soft. They’re not meant to be.
“I just—” I start, my fingers tightening slightly on the mattress. “I don’t want to keep you up. You need to sleep.”
Before I can move any further, before I can pull away enough to make the decision for both of us, his arm tightens and pulls me back. Not rough. Not forceful. But final. I’m back against him in a second, the space I tried to create gone before it fully forms.
“No,” he says, quieter now, his voice dropping back into something steadier, something that wraps around me instead of pushing against me. “We’ll unpack your dream tomorrow.”
His hand settles against me again, firm, grounding, like he’s already decided this isn’t something I’m handling on my own.
“But right now,” he continues, his breath warm against my hair, his hold tightening just enough that I feel it settle into place, “I want you here.” The words don’t rush. They don’t push. “In my arms.”
Something in my chest tightens again. Not from fear. Not from the nightmare still lingering at the edges. From something else. Something quieter. Something I don’t have a name for yet.
“Go back to sleep, Baby,” he murmurs, softer now, like he’s not just telling me, he’s guiding me back into it. “I got you.”
And the way he says it—the way he holds me when he does—I don’t argue. I don’t pull away again. I let myself settle back into him, the tension easing out of my body piece by piece, my breathing slowly matching the steady rhythm of his behind me.
The memory doesn’t disappear. It never does. But it fades just enough that it doesn’t take over everything else.
And for the second time tonight—I let myself stay.