Page 71 of Triple Play
He hesitates, weighing his options, deciding whether to let me through those carefully constructed walls. Then he steps back, opening the door wider.
His room is exactly what I expected: sparse and clean. Every light is on—overhead, desk lamp, bedside lamp, even the closet light. It’s bright enough to make me squint. Geez.
The bed is a disaster. Sheets twisted, pillows on the floor. He’s been fighting something all night and losing.
“Bad night?” I ask, keeping my voice soft and non-threatening.
“They’re all bad nights.” He stands with his arms crossed, a defensive posture, but I can see the exhaustion etched in every line of his body. “What are you doing up?”
“I heard you through the wall. Wanted to check on you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Wyatt.” I step closer. “You’re clearly not fine.”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kick me out, tell me to mind my own business. Then his shouldersdrop slightly, and he sinks onto the edge of his bed as if gravity has finally won.
“Can’t sleep,” he admits.
I sit next to him, close enough that our arms brush. “When’s the last time you actually slept?”
He’s quiet for so long that I think he won’t answer. “Three days. Maybe four.”
My heart cracks. “Wyatt—”
“I’m used to it.” But the way he says it, the exhaustion in his voice, tells me he’s anything but used to it. He’s just surviving it.
“Have you tried—” I stop myself. He’s probably tried everything: melatonin, meditation, sleep aids. Nothing works when your brain is replaying trauma on loop.
“What?” he asks, and there’s something vulnerable in his tone, as if he’s desperate enough to try anything.
An idea forms. It’s probably stupid, possibly presumptuous. But looking at him—at the shadows under his eyes, the way he’s practically vibrating with exhaustion—I can’t help but offer.
“Can I try something?” I ask.
He looks at me, wary. “Try what?”
“What if I stayed with you?”
“Like sleep together?” His eyes widen.
“Yes. Just sleep.”
He looks skeptical.
“And let me turn off the lights.”
His whole body goes rigid. “No.”
“I’ll be right here. If it’s too much, we can turn them back on.”
“Elise—” He stops himself, takes a long, slow inhale. “You’ll stay?” The question comes out small and uncertain, and it guts me.
“I’ll be right here.” I reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together. “I promise.”
He stares at our joined hands for a long moment. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: “Okay.”
I stand slowly, giving him time to change his mind. I walk to the wall switch and look back at him one more time.
