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When she showed up at his door, tears leaving black tracks of makeup down her face, he didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't even question how she had come to be there, on his doorstep, at an impossible time of night. He ushered her inside and sat her down, offered her tea, coffee, water? She settled for brandy. What eighteen-year-old drinks brandy? He ran her a bath and she sank into it gratefully. He brought her a piece of toast with his best strawberry jam and still asked no questions. When she was done, he handed her a big fluffy towel and cuccooned her, swaddling her like a child. He led her to his bedroom and slipped his biggest shirt over her head and folded back the duvet. She slid into his bed and he tucked her in and wiped the last smudge of makeup from under her eye with his thumb. He left a cup of water on the bedside table in his favourite mug. He perched on the edge of the bed until her eyelids fluttered shut and her breathing was relaxed into soft snuffles. He gently held her fingers in his hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. He grabbed a blanket on his way out and made a bed for himself on the couch.

Sleep Talking

"It's okay, it's okay," I soothe, awkwardly wrapping my arms around his head. His eyes don't open but I know he senses me there. There is a cold sweat adding a sheen to his forehead and his breathing is irregular. I don't know what to do, so I just sit there, with his head tucked under my arm until I feel his laboured breaths slow. I make the odd shushing sound but mainly sit in silence. He softens beneath me and I know he is asleep again. I feel strange sitting by his pillow whilst he sleeps, but for some reason I am reluctant to leave. His terrified screams made me nervous. I didn't want him to dream like that again. So I stay and lean my back against the headboard, counting the cracks in the ceiling. I can't stop my eyes from flickering down to his face every now and then, making sure he's okay and making sure he's still there. He huffs as he rolls onto his side and faces me, a small, sleepy frown creasing the part between his eyebrows. He's still asleep, but he's mumbling incoherently and it almost makes me smile. He breathes my name, but it's soft as a whisper and I think I imagine it. I hear it again and start - he must know I am there. I gently swing my legs off the edge of the bed, ready to leave, when I feel his fist lamely grab my knee. I stop and he relaxes, even in sleep. "I love you," he mutters. "I love you." I swallow the lump in my throat and kiss the top of his head gingerly. "I love you," he sighs again and I sigh too, but for a different reason.