Page 242 of Faking the Goal

"I'll be fine, Ken-chan," I tell him, gentler this time. "Go see your mom."

He finally gives in with a quiet sigh. "All right. I'll go."

"Good."

"But if you need me—"

"I know."

He gives me a look.

"I'll call you," I promise.

That seems to satisfy him. Barely.

*****

A sharp gasp tears out of me as I jolt awake, my heart hammering so hard it feels as if it is trying to punch its way through my ribs. For a few disorienting seconds, I don't know where I am. The darkness presses in around me, thick and unfamiliar, and the remnants of the nightmare cling to my skin like cobwebs—my apartment door hanging open, black flowers scattered across the floor, someone standing just beyond the reach of the light.

Then my eyes adjust enough to make out the familiar shape of the bedroom, the manga stacked beside my pillow, and Kentaro sleeping beside me.

The glowing numbers on the clock read two-oh-seven in the morning.

Kentaro is still asleep, lying on his side with one arm tucked beneath his pillow, his breathing slow and even. He looks so peaceful that I almost resent him for it. Not really, of course, but there is something deeply offensive about another person sleeping that soundly when my own brain has decided rest is a privilege I no longer deserve.

I sink back against my pillow and close my eyes, determined to force myself back to sleep, but the moment darkness settles over me again, the nightmare rushes back in.

I try counting backward, taking slow breaths, imagining something calm, but nothing works. After nearly twenty minutes of tossing around and accomplishing nothing except tangling myself in the blanket, I finally give up and carefully slip out of bed, trying not to wake him.

Thankfully, my ankle has healed enough that I can move around normally again, so I make my way downstairs without the boot or crutches that had practically become permanent extensions of my body for the past couple of weeks. The hallway is quiet as I fill a glass with water and stand in the kitchen drinking it slowly while the rest of the hockey house sleeps.

By the time I return to the bedroom, I am still exhausted enough to cry, but sleep feels farther away than ever. Kentaro hasn't moved much, still sprawled across his side of the bed, so I crawl back in beside him, prop myself against the headboard, and reach for the volume of A Sign of Affection I started earlier, hoping it'll keep my brain occupied long enough for exhaustion to finally win.

I'm several pages in before a voice cuts through the silence.

"Hey."

I start so badly that the manga nearly flies out of my hands. Kentaro's voice is low and rough with sleep, the kind of husky sound that should be illegal at two in the morning when my nerves are already frayed and my hormones have proven themselves incapable of behaving around him.

"Hey," I whisper back, flashing him half a smile.

Beside me, he lifts his head from the pillow and blinks up at me through the darkness. "Nightmare again?"

My smile fades as I nod.

The concern that immediately settles over his face makes something heavy twist inside my chest. He already knows how bad the nightmares have become since the break-in. He has woken up more than once to find me sitting upright beside him or wandering downstairs because I couldn't bear to close my eyes again. He has warmed milk, brewed every supposedly calming tea he could find in the kitchen, and even bought melatonin after reading online that it might help. None of it has worked.

I keep telling him I'm fine, that sleepless nights aren't new to me and I know how to function through them, but apparently hearing that I'm accustomed to suffering does not comfort him nearly as much as I think it should.

Kentaro lets out a tired sigh and pushes himself upright beside me, dragging a hand over his face as the mattress shifts beneath his weight. For a moment, I expect him to tell me to try closing my eyes again, but instead he turns toward me, close enough that the heat from his body immediately seeps into my side.

"I'm getting worried about you," he says quietly. "You're barely sleeping, and if this keeps going, you're going to make yourself sick."

"I'm not doing it on purpose."

"I know." His expression softens, but the concern stays. "There has to be something else we haven't tried. Something that usually helps when you can't sleep."

Heat crawls slowly up my neck.