Page 39 of Give Me Strength

She doesn’t respond, lost in whatever horror her mind has conjured. Her eyelids flutter, but they don’t open. Her breathing is ragged, and her movements are frantic. I reach out, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Ash, wake up,” I say a bit more firmly, my thumb lightly brushing her skin. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

Slowly, her eyelids flutter, then open, wide and unfocused at first. For a moment, she looks right through me as if I’m not really there, her breaths coming in rapid, shallow gasps as she struggles to separate the dream from reality. I can see the terror still clinging to her, the remnants of the nightmare refusing to let go.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I murmur, my voice soft and soothing. “It’s just me. You’re safe.”

Recognition slowly dawns in her eyes, the fear giving way to confusion and then relief. She blinks several times, her breathing gradually slowing as the real world comes into focus.

“Gilbert?” She finally whispers, her voice shaky and confused.

I nod, offering a reassuring smile. “Yeah, it’s me.” I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You were having a nightmare, but it’s over now. You’re okay.”

She blinks, the fog of sleep lifts from her eyes. She takes a deep, shaky breath, the tension slowly leaving her body. Tears well up in her eyes, and she quickly wipes them away, looking embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

“You don’t need to apologize,” I say softly, my hand still on her shoulder, grounding her in the present. “Nightmares can be really intense, but you’re here with me now. You’re safe.”

The relief in her eyes is palpable, and she exhales a long, shuddering breath. I can see her trying to compose herself, her hands loosening their grip on the blanket. The room feels calmer now, the lingering echoes of the nightmare fading into the background.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, and her answer is swift.

She shakes her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Not right now.”

I nod, understanding. That’s okay too. I won’t push her. I sit down on the edge of her bed, close enough to offer comfort but not so close as to overwhelm her. She looks so small and vulnerable wrapped in her blankets, her face still pale from the terror of the dream.

“I’ll stay with you, just until you fall back asleep — if that’s alright with you.”

She nods, her eyes grateful. “Thank you.” A beat passes, then she throws the covers off her body. “Wet clothes,” she mumbles under her breath as she climbs out of bed and retrieves fresh sheets from the pull-out drawer under her bed.

I take the sheets from her, our fingers brushing slightly. “Here, let me.”

Her eyes go wide. “But?—”

“But nothing. Go do what you need to,” I tell her, trying really hard to keep my brain from conjuring up a vivid image of what she looks like less clothed. “I promised not to leave until you fall back asleep, and I won’t.”

We’ve done this a few times now, and she still fights me on it each time.

Twenty minutes, fresh sheets, fresh clothes and a lorazepam later, she’s settled in, her eyes still red but calmer. As promised, I stay by her side, my presence a silent promise that she’s not alone in this. I keep my voice low, speaking softly about mundane things, anything to help her feel grounded. She listens, her breaths slowly evening out, the tension gradually leaving her body.

As her breathing becomes steady and deep, I watch her eyelids flutter closed, exhaustion finally pulling her into a more peaceful sleep. I feel a deep, protective tenderness for her, a desire to shield her from the nightmares, from any pain.

By the time I leave, the room is quieter, filled with the gentle rhythm of her breathing. I hope that wherever her dreams take her now, they’re kinder, filled with light and warmth.

She deserves that and so much more.

18

GILBERT

It shouldn’t be this hard to find a housekeeper. It’s been weeks of me burning the midnight oil, yet I have nothing to show for it — save for a fancy workspace.

The kitchen is a vision of luxury, bathed in a soft glow from the under-cabinet lights, casting warm shadows on the Calacatta Gold marble countertops. It’s straight out of a high-end interior design magazine — one of Rachel’s many splurges when it came to this house — filled with the finest stainless steel appliances, a state-of-the-art espresso machine, and everything one could possibly need to create culinary masterpieces.

A shame, really, that it is not currently being used to its full potential.

At almost midnight, the house is eerily quiet, the kind of silence that seems to seep into your bones. And tonight, like many other nights in the last few weeks, the kitchen is more of a makeshift office, papers sprawled across the island counter. I’ve already been at this for hours, perched on a barstool with my laptop open beside me as I sift through more housekeeper resumes, making notes as I research the fancy terms on their admittedly embellished resumes.

---