Breathless ✓

Thirty ✔

Rico's gaze softens as he watches me, a silent acknowledgment of the vulnerability that has surfaced. "Take your time. When you're ready, tell me what happened."

The remnants of the nightmare linger, the images still vivid in my mind. But as I continue to breathe, the grip of fear loosens, allowing me to articulate the haunting dream that had seized me in its clutches.

After a few more steadying breaths, I manage to regain some composure. The room's dim lighting and the concerned faces of Rico and Amara come into focus.

"Nightmare," I mumble, my voice still shaky. "It felt so real."

Rico's grip on my shoulders eases, but his concern lingers. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I nod, a sense of vulnerability settling in. "It was like a flashback... My parents. I was little, and they were fading away. Then, Christian..." My voice falters as the memory of Christian fading into darkness resurfaces.

Amara sits down beside me, offering a comforting presence. "Nightmares can be tough. Do you want me to stay with you tonight?"

I manage a small smile, appreciating the genuine concern. "Thank you, Amara. I think I'll be okay."

Rico exhales, visibly relieved that the immediate crisis has passed. "Alright, but if you need anything, don't hesitate to wake us up."

I nod again, silently grateful for their support. As Rico and Amara leave the room, I lie back against the pillows, the remnants of the nightmare lingering like a shadow. The weight of unspoken fears and past traumas looms large, and the realization of how much I've come to rely on Christian for solace and stability becomes even more apparent.

In the solitude of the room, I take a few deep breaths, grounding myself in the present. The nightmare's hold begins to loosen, replaced by the gentle reassurance of Amara's presence and the distant sounds of the night. But beneath it all, an undercurrent of unease remains, a reminder that the line between dreams and reality can sometimes blur in the most unsettling ways.

...

As I leave the confines of my room, the quiet murmur of voices in the kitchen draws me in. The soft glow of the kitchen light spills into the hallway, casting a warm invitation. Amara, Rico, and Francis are gathered around the table, engrossed in conversation. Their heads turn as I enter, concern etched on their faces.

"Victoria, are you feeling better?" Amara asks, her eyes filled with genuine care.

I nod, offering a small smile to reassure them. "Yeah, thanks to both of you. I appreciate it."

Rico gestures towards the chair beside him. "Sit down. You don't have to go through this alone."

As I take a seat, I feel a sense of camaraderie in their presence. The shared experiences of the past days have woven a thread of understanding among us.

"I just wanted to say," I begin, choosing my words carefully, "when Christian comes back, don't tell him about the nightmare. He's dealing with enough, and I don't want to add to his worries."

Amara exchanges a glance with Rico, understanding passing between them. "Of course, Victoria. We'll respect your wishes. But if you ever need to talk about it, we're here."

I appreciate their understanding, grateful for the unspoken agreement to shield Christian from unnecessary concerns. The weight of secrets and shared experiences binds us in a delicate web, and I find solace in the support of my newfound makeshift family.

The quiet hum of conversation in the kitchen pauses as the door creaks open. Christian strides in, accompanied by his father. The tension in the room ebbs, replaced by a mixture of relief and anticipation. As his eyes meet mine, a soft smile plays on his lips, and I feel a rush of warmth.

Without thinking, I rise from my seat and move towards him. The distance between us evaporates as I throw my arms around him in a tight embrace. Christian responds with an instinctive pull, enfolding me in the safety of his arms. His scent, familiar and comforting, wraps around me, momentarily dispelling the lingering shadows of the night.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," I reply, the words muffled against his chest. In this moment, the world outside fades away, leaving only the reassurance of his presence.

Christian's father watches the scene with a knowing smile, recognizing the unspoken connection between us. "It's good to see you both together," he remarks, a hint of warmth in his voice.

Amara, Rico, and Francis, who have been witness to the unfolding dynamics, share a glance of approval. The kitchen, once a place of shared vulnerabilities, now witnesses a different kind of unity—the unspoken acknowledgment that, despite the challenges, we stand together.