Capturing Peace (Sharing You 0.50)

“You’re sleeping here about three times a week, and each time you just can’t seem to believe that it’s morning when we wake up. You’re always in awe, why is that?”

Dark eyes now fully on me, his face remained blank.

I moved so I was lying on my stomach, and played with the sheet below me, studying it intently. “Keegan said something at the very beginning of us seeing each other.”

“And what was that?” he asked, his tone dark—­and I knew then, whatever this was had to do with whatever was haunting him.

“He asked if you slept. But at the time we hadn’t slept together, so he dropped the subject.” Risking a glance at him, I asked softly, “Do you not sleep?”

Coen studied me for a long time before releasing a harsh breath. “Not if I’m not with you. I mean—­I do. But I don’t like to. Some nights I don’t sleep at all, others I get an hour and a half to two hours . . . and that’s if I’m not able to wake myself up after thirty minutes.”

“Thirty . . . what? Why thirty?”

Rolling onto his back, he stared blankly at the ceiling and rested his hands on his chest. “I have flashbacks if I sleep.”

“From whatever happened two and a half years ago?”

“Mostly. Sometimes other missions.”

I watched the haunted look fall over his face and pressed my palm to his cheek, turning his head so he was looking at me. A calmness slowly filled his features, and he grabbed my hand to kiss it.

“Why do you sleep with me, do you think?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea. That first night here, I hadn’t planned on actually falling asleep, next thing I knew it was six hours later and you were waking me up.”

“And you’ve never had a nightmare—­”

“Flashback.”

“You’ve never had a flashback when you sleep with me?”

His dark eyes held mine as he shook his head.

“Have you—­have you thought about talking to someone?”

Coen sighed and sat up, but his face showed all the patience in the world as he pulled me into his chest. “I’m not going to talk to anyone. Your brother and Saco try to get me to all the time. And before you ask why, it’s because even though those ­people are trained to help . . . they couldn’t possibly understand because they’ve never gone through anything like what we went through.”

“Okay, I get that. But you’re not sleeping,” I argued softly, and gripped the back of his neck as I sat up to rest my forehead against his. “That alone can cause depression, and if you’re already dealing with . . . whatever it is you’re dealing with—­”

A laugh rumbled in Coen’s chest. “Do I seem depressed to you, Ray?”

I didn’t find anything about this amusing. I was terrified for him. “You worry me sometimes,” I replied honestly.

His dark eyes widened, and surprise covered his features. “What?”

“Sometimes the things you say . . . they’re dark. Your words are haunted, and they show just how haunted you are up here.” I touched his temple with the tips of my fingers. “But I know you went through things no one should have to, so I understand you. That doesn’t mean I’m not worried. And then the pictures you take of yourself. I love them, Coen, I do. They’re . . . different, edgy, sexy, some are hilarious. But you and I both know why you hide your face or your eyes, even if you’re not meaning to.”

Coen was quiet for so long, I started to think I’d pushed him too far. Sitting back on his lap, I looked at his tortured face, and my heart broke.

“That’s what I do.”

“What?”

Looking up at me, he repeated, “That’s what I do. When I can’t sleep, or when I’m avoiding it, I edit pictures, or go do shoots of myself. It gives me something to think about other than what I feel like I’m running from.”

Letting my hands run over his shoulders, I looked at the path they were making as the tension left Coen’s body. “I wish I could take it away for you.”

He laughed sadly. “I already told you, you do. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how . . . but you do.”