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I finally let her sleep.
I just got too tired to argue anymore about it and she just curls up on the couch downstairs like she's been waiting for the permission. Her red hair spills over the pillow, a sight that brings back memories so vivid I have to catch my breath and get as far away from her as possible.
For a while, I try to keep busy, barricading the doors and windows like some mindless ritual that'll keep me from thinking too much. I tell myself I'm just securing the place, doing what I always do to survive another night. But when the house is sealed, and the storm keeps hammering outside, there's nothing left to distract me.
I take off my hat, set it on the floor beside me as I sit near her. Resting my head against the couch, listening to the slow rise and fall of her breathing, waiting for any break in the rhythm, any sign that she might slip away. For her body to give in to whatever damage from the head injury she's been trying to shrug off.
I know it's stupid to keep watch like this. I can't stop her from dying in her sleep if that's what's going to happen. But here I am, just like all those nights she used to sneak into my room, lying beside me like it meant nothing. I protected her then, and I'm doing it now—whether she asked for it or not.
I can't help but notice how small she looks like this. Even in sleep, she doesn't let go, her brow furrowed, fists curled tight into the cushions. And I wonder why the hell I still care. Why I'm still here, sitting in the dark, making sure she doesn't die alone.
It's strange—how I spent all that time pushing her away, and now, here I am, sitting at her side like nothing's changed. Like I've been waiting for this.
I close my eye, not for sleep but for some illusion of it, trying to trick myself into shutting down. Still listening to her breath.
But then I feel it—fingers in my hair, tentative at first, brushing the strands back from my face. I freeze, shocked by the touch, every muscle tight, the air caught in my throat.
Mary.
Her hand moves slowly, smoothing my hair behind my ear, soft and steady. The touch of a lover. I don't move. I don't even breathe, almost completely certain she's doing this in her sleep.
But then her fingers trace the edge of the bandage that hides the horrific wound, and she pauses, her breath hitching. She's awake. She knows what she's doing.
"I'm sorry."
I know she didn't mean for me to hear, but I do. However, I stay still, pretending I didn't. Though that doesn't stop the apology from lodging itself somewhere within me so deep I can't wretch it out. It buries itself into my ribs, between my lungs, nestles right into my chest all thick and heavy.
