(Kaelen)
I say it in the morning.
Not as an ultimatum, not as a threat — I wake before him, which I've been doing since the nightmares, and I lie there in the gray pre-dawn and I listen to his breathing and I know what I need before I've found the words for it.
He wakes when I sit up. He always does.
"I need some time," I say. To the window. "Not — I'm not leaving. I'm not going anywhere. I just need to—" I stop. "I need to be inside my own head for a while without—"
"I know," he says.
I turn to look at him. He's watching me, hair disordered from sleep, and his face has that quality it gets at this hour — undefended, the version of him that exists before the day requires anything.
"Separate rooms," I say. "For a few days. Maybe more."
He nods. Once. "Okay."
"You're not—"
"Kaelen.
