Two weeks after the attack, I wake up to find Zeke already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching me sleep.
"Creeper," I mumble, but I'm smiling.
"Can't help it." He traces a finger along my jawline. "You're beautiful when you sleep. Peaceful."
"No nightmares last night."
"I know. Third night in a row." His smile is soft, proud. "You're getting better."
I am, I think. Slowly. The hypervigilance is still there, the way my heart races when I hear unexpected sounds, but it's getting easier. The nightmares are less frequent. The panic attacks further apart.
And Zeke has been there for all of it.
He's been incredible, actually. Patient and understanding and exactly what I need. When I wake up gasping from nightmares, he's already reaching for me. When I freeze at a loud noise, he groun
