Updated Mar 23, 2026 • ~7 min read
Chapter 13: The morning after
JAKE
He woke up at 0230 and didn’t know where he was.
That was the first second.
The second second, he knew: Amy’s room. Amy’s bed. The curtains were different from his — white linen, moving slightly in the window fan — and the ceiling was lower and the room smelled like her, which was a specific and familiar thing that should have been grounding but his nervous system was already running the protocol and had not yet caught up to *Amy’s room*.
He came off the bed.
He didn’t know he’d done it until he was against the far wall, back against the plaster, breathing too fast with his hands up in the position that meant something had come from the right.
Nothing had come from the right.
He was in Amy’s bedroom.
He ran the protocol: *Oakwood, Texas. Amy’s house. The sound was a nightmare.* He ran it at speed, at volume, trying to get through it before—
Amy said: *Jake.*
She was awake.
She was sitting up in the bed, one hand on the lamp she hadn’t turned on, watching him with wide eyes that were not frightened but were — careful. The VA-trained careful. The specific attention of someone who knew not to move fast.
He said: *Don’t.*
She went still.
He was against the wall.
He thought: *she was in the bed.*
He thought: *I came off the bed.*
He thought: *if she had been in the way—*
He said: *I could have—*
She said: *You didn’t.* She was very still. *You’re against the wall. I’m in the bed. We’re okay.*
He said: *Amy, I—*
She said: *Jake. Run the protocol.*
He ran it.
She said: *Say it out loud.*
He said: *Oakwood, Texas.* He said it to the wall. *Amy’s house. The sound was a nightmare.* He said: *I woke up and I—* He stopped. *I came off the bed.*
She said: *You did. You’re against the wall now. You didn’t touch me.* She was very quiet, very still, a lamp in her hand she hadn’t turned on. *Can you hear your breathing.*
He heard it.
He said: *Yes.*
She said: *Count it down. In for four, hold for four, out for eight.*
He counted it down.
She didn’t move.
He counted it down twice. Three times. The room came back — the curtains, the window fan, the smell that was hers — and the heart rate came down and he was in the room, properly, standing against the far wall of Amy’s bedroom at 0230.
He said: *I have to go.*
She said: *Jake.*
He said: *I could have hurt you.*
She said: *You didn’t.*
He said: *I came off the bed. I had my hands—*
She said: *I know.* She put the lamp down. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, unhurried, unthreatening. *I know what happened. I’m trained for this.*
He said: *You’re my—* He stopped. *You shouldn’t have to be trained for this in your own room.*
She said: *I trained for this because I wanted to. Because I work at the VA and because—* She stopped. *Because of you. I got the certification because of you.* She looked at him. *I knew you were coming home. I knew I wanted to know how to help.*
He was very still.
She said: *That’s not a burden I’m putting on you. That’s my choice. I made it two years ago.* She paused. *Come sit down.*
He said: *I should go home.*
She said: *Jake. Sit down.*
He came away from the wall.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
She sat beside him. She did not touch him — not yet, not rushing it. She was just there, on the edge of the bed, in her room, in the warm dark.
He said: *I’m a disaster.*
She said: *You’re a person dealing with PTSD.* She said it simply. *That’s not a disaster. That’s a medical condition.*
He said: *I almost—*
She said: *You didn’t.* She turned slightly toward him. *And you’re not going to. Because you’re running the protocol. Because you’re in therapy. Because you’re doing the work.* She paused. *The gap between almost and did is called effort and you’re making it.*
He looked at his hands.
He said: *What if it gets worse.*
She said: *What if it gets better.*
He said: *Amy.*
She said: *Jake.* She reached out — slow, deliberate, the way she always moved toward him — and put her hand over his. *This is the thing I want you to hear. The thing that happened tonight is exactly the thing I was trained for and exactly the thing I was prepared for. It was hard and it was scary and I’m fine.* She paused. *We’re fine.*
He said: *I don’t want you to be scared in your own room.*
She said: *I know.* She squeezed his hand. *I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of the things that hurt you. Those are different fears.*
He thought about that.
He said: *You should have someone who’s—*
She said: *If you say the words “someone who isn’t broken” I am going to become very tiresome about it.*
He stopped.
She said: *You’re not broken. You’re injured.* She said it with precision, the way she said things she’d thought carefully about. *An injury heals with the right conditions. You know what the conditions are.*
He said: *Therapy.*
She said: *Therapy. The protocol. Showing up.* She paused. *And someone who is not going to leave when it’s hard.* She looked at him. *That’s me. That’s what I said yes to.*
He said: *I haven’t asked you anything.*
She said: *You asked me on the porch when you took my hand. You asked me every time you texted at three in the morning. You ask me every time you come through my door.*
He looked at her.
She said: *The answer keeps being yes.*
He put his face in his hands for a moment.
He said, to his palms: *I love you.*
He hadn’t planned to say it.
She said: *I know.* She said it softly. *I love you too.* She paused. *I’ve loved you for twelve years. I’m very good at it.*
He laughed.
It surprised him — the laugh, the specific real version that he’d been rationing since he got back. She had pulled it out of him at three in the morning after a nightmare and he was sitting on the edge of her bed with his face in his hands and laughing, and she was smiling in the dark and he thought: *this is the room.*
He thought: *this is the room on the other side of the door.*
He lay back down.
She lay beside him.
She didn’t touch him — not yet, just close enough — and the room settled and the window fan turned and he thought: *four hours of sleep yesterday.*
He thought: *let me try again.*
She said: *If it happens again, I’ll say your name.*
He said: *If it happens again, I’ll run the protocol.*
She said: *Deal.*
He said: *Thank you.*
She said: *Stop thanking me.*
He said: *I can’t. You’re extraordinary.*
She was quiet for a moment.
She said: *Go to sleep, Jake.*
He went to sleep.
He did not dream.
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