Ben was crouched over her. His knees sunk into the bed, and his dark hair was messy with sleep. His green eyes were painfully bright in the darkness, twin blades sharp enough to slice through you, when he chose to wield them.
"It's me," he said.
"What—?" Louise twisted. "Where am I?"
The lingering effects of the nightmare were fading away, replaced by a rising sense of embarrassment. The pain in her arms lessened, and she realized that Ben had been pinning her arms to the bed.
"You're at home," Ben said. "You're safe. Sorry about the — ah —" He gestured to her sore wrists. "You knocked over a clock."
Louise sat up, squinting through the darkness. Sure enough, glass was scattered across the floor, glinting like diamonds in the moonlight filtering through the window. She pulled her knees into her chest.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"It's alright," Ben murmured. "Don't apologize."
She ran a shaky hand over her face. "I'm so embarrassed."
"For what?"
"This." Her heart was pounding. "Me."
Ben's face tightened. "You don't need to be ashamed of being afraid."
"I'm not," she whispered. "But I'm ashamed that you're seeing it."
There was a long pause. She felt the bed dip, and a moment later, Ben's arms were wrapped around her. He smelled of sandalwood soap and pine and laundry detergent, and his grey t-shirt was soft against her cheek. His hands stroked her spine, and she stiffened at first before relaxing into it, like sliding into a hot bath.
"I have them too, you know." His voice was soft. "The nightmares."
"You do?"
She felt him nod. "I dream that James is trapped in a burning city on the other side of the world. And I have to listen over the phone as he says goodbye to me." His thumb switched to circles. "It's hard, isn't it?"
Louise closed her eyes. Hard. There was a world of pain in that one word. But how did you describe the sensation of grief? There were days that she wanted to claw her way out of her own skin. Days that she woke up in a terrible fog of numbness only to look in the mirror and realize that she was crying. How did you describe that pain?
It was the kind of all-consuming fear that sunk into your bones. That knit into your soul. To rip out that sort of fear, Louise thought, you would have to destroy yourself.
"I'm always crying around you," she said.
The circles paused. "What do you mean?"
Louise made a strangled sound that could have been a laugh. "At the funeral. After Vienna was sick. Now..." She shook her head. "I'm going to ruin all your shirts."
"Do I make you cry?"
Ben sounded appalled at the idea. Louise drew back, meeting his gaze.
"It's more like..." Louise wiped at her eyes. "I've never felt like I could cry in front of people, but it's different, with you. You don't count." She shifted until her legs were in his lap. "I'm not worried that you'll judge me, because you always see me. Even when I'm shouting, or crying, or half-asleep on my feet, you just keep looking at me, like you're seeing me. The actual me. Does that make any sense?"
His breath hitched. "Louise..."
"Say that again," she whispered.
A pulse jumped in his throat. Slowly — ever so slowly — Ben raised a hand to cup her face. Louise felt her breath catch. Was he thinking of what happened the last time they were alone in this room? Of what they'd almost done on this bed? Heat unfurled in her chest, a delicious pool of melting butter.
Ben's gaze sharpened with a newfound intensity. His breathing changed, becoming shorter. Faster. She was suddenly excruciatingly aware of every part of them that was touching: his hand against her back, their knees, her foot against his calf.
Ben leaned closer.
It was the whisper of a kiss. The ghost of one. But it was enough to set Louise ablaze, send her heartrate spiking so fast that it was almost painful. She moved forward, but Ben was already drawing back.
"No." Ben's voice was ragged. "No."
Something hollow filled her chest. "Sorry."
"It's not your fault," Ben muttered. "It's mine."
There was a long pause. Louise shifted into an upright position, touching her lips with her fingers, and Ben tracked the movement.
"This can't keep happening," he murmured.
"I know," Louise said. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," Ben said. "I was the one that took advantage. You were in a bad way, and I just..." His voice was laced with self-disgust. "What sort of person does that?"
She dropped her hand. "I wanted you to."
"That's no excuse," Ben said, and his voice was in ribbons somehow, like soft cheese against a grater. "God, I can't help myself around you, Bentley. You drive me mad." He stood abruptly. "I should go. Before I..." He swallowed. "Before anything else happens."
"Will you stay?" Louise asked. "Just for tonight?"
She should have been glad for the darkness, Louise reflected, because she could feel her cheeks burning. But she'd meant what she said before; she didn't care if Ben saw her like this. He was the only person she'd allow to see her like this.
Ben sighed. "It's not a good idea."
"Please, Ben."
It killed her to beg. Killed her. But she'd do it, for him. All the fight had drained out of her, a receding tidal wave, leaving flotsam and bits of broken bottles on the sand. Louise shivered, and something in Ben's face softened.
"Okay," he said.
He climbed into bed, rolling so that they were both lying sideways, facing one another. Her face was tucked into the hollow below his neck. Ben stroked his thumb over her shoulder blade, the movement slow and deliberate. He seemed afraid of startling her, as if she were a rabid animal that was liable to bolt.
"Good night, Langford," she murmured.
He kissed the top of her head. "Good night, Bentley."
And this time, when Louise slept, there were no nightmares.
The next morning passed in a blur.
Louise stumbled around the kitchen, chugging coffee the way an anaphylactic person might chug Benadryl. She poured orange juice on Hugh's cereal instead of milk. Tried to brush Vienna's hair using a lint roller. It was only when Louise tried to put her housekeys in the dishwasher that she gave up, changed into a blouse and jeans, and dropped both kids at their respective schools.
Then she went to work.
Louise spent most of the day battling Patricia from Sales for the copy maker and trying not to fall asleep on her potted fern (plastic, obviously; Louise hadn't managed to keep a plant alive in... well, ever). Oh, and chugging more coffee. Lots of coffee. She yawned, blinking at her computer screen.
God, she was tired.
The words swam off the page: Herringbone Oak; rare flamingos; projected revenue estimate; golden confetti. She was just about to take a break and go for her fifth coffee of the day when her phone rang.
Ben, she thought.
It would be just like Ben to call to discuss the previous night's events. To clear the air. He'd left early this morning, slipping out before dawn, and it had left an odd feeling in Louise's chest, as if she'd held her breath for so long that she felt woozy.
But, no; it was Hugh's school.
Louise hit the accept button. "Hello?"
"Ms. Bentley?"
"Speaking."
"This is Headmistress Davies," a Welsh voice said. "I have Hugh with me. There's been a bit of a situation."
Louise closed her eyes.
Shit.
She'd forgotten Hugh's lunch, hadn't she? She could picture it in her mind's eye: a Spiderman lunch box, filled with a milk carton, an apple, a ham-and-cheese sandwich, and a biscuit, sitting on the counter at home...
"I know," Louise said. "It's entirely my fault."
A pause. "Pardon?"
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're talking about his lunch, right? I packed it this morning, but I forgot to put it in his bag. Can you ask Hugh if he's okay with snacks until Ben grabs him?"
There was another pause. She got the sense that Headmistress Davies was holding a piece of delicate needlework, trying to find out the best place to stab.
"Ms. Bentley, I'm afraid that I'm not speaking about lunch. Hugh has been in a fight. You'll need to come down the school immediately."