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Emma wasn’t quite sure what woke her up, but the lack of Paul in the bed was a good indicator as to a possible cause. She’d become used to having him curl up tightly against her after everything that happened, so to not even see him sitting on the bed was strange. Despite the mess of his side of the bed, the mattress was cold – he’d not been there for a while. She glanced to the clock on the wall, squinting to just barely make out the time: quarter past three. Judging by the fact that it was dark, it was safe to assume that it was early morning. Rolling the duvet off and shoving her feet into her slippers, Emma padded out of the bedroom.
“Paul?” she called, not seeing the tell-tale strip of light underneath the bathroom door and walking into a dark living room. Then, Emma saw the kitchen door ajar and the light on, and she relaxed a little. He’d probably gone to get himself a glass of water.
“Paul, you in he-” There was a clatter when she opened the door as Paul turned to face her, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. Emma blinked then frowned softly in confusion.
“E-Emma. Hi.”
“Hi…everything alright?”
“Uh, yep, yes, everything’s ok. It’s ok.”
Emma scoffed, “Bullshit, you look like you’re going to collapse.” Paul’s gaze, which had been flicking all around the room, locked onto her finally and she softened. He was scared. She approached him carefully, never breaking eye contact.
“What is it, Paul?” she asked softly, worried that he seemed to be hiding something behind him, “Talk to me? Please?”
“I-” his voice shook, tears filling his eyes far faster than Emma would have liked, “I can’t Emma, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I just- I didn’t mean-” Paul’s breathing became erratic, his thoughts clearly about ten steps ahead of the current situation, “I-It’s not- I don’t want to do it but it’s…they’re still there and it’s just so loud and-”
[Ted was dead and it was Paul’s fault. Bill could have been next. He’d submitted to her so easily, and wasn’t that just pathetic of him? The memories hurt like the taser in her hand.]
Emma had to stop him, even though she’d just got him talking. She could tell he was spiralling and wanted to minimise it as much as possible if she couldn’t stop it completely.
“Breathe with me, Paul. In…and out, that’s it. What don’t you want to do? Is it something I’ve said? Or…or someone at CCRP?” If Bill had said anything else, she was going to punch him.
He looked at her, terrified tears falling down his face, then shook his head slightly.
“Then what are you talking about?” Emma asked again softly.
She saw him swallow hard, saw him fighting with himself until he jerked out the hand behind him across the countertop and pulled it back like the item he’d held had burned him. Emma felt her blood freeze in her veins. A chef’s knife laid there innocently, as if it wasn’t a menace to the human body – Paul had eventually explained, with as little detail as possible, what had happened with Ted, and Emma had made a mental note to keep the covers that came with big knives in the future. This one had been bought Before.
“Paul…” she breathed, holding him tightly when he finally broke with repeated apologies whispered through the tears. He didn’t need to explain this time, she could take a pretty good guess.
[He wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone if he wasn’t around. Bill would be safe, Emma would be safe. He wouldn’t have to fear running into that sweetly sadistic woman ever again. If there was anything after death, if Ted was there, he could say how sorry he was, how it should have been him on the bed and not Ted. It should have been him…]
Emma slowly brought Paul out of the kitchen, sitting him on the sofa and leaving only long enough to get him a glass of water and bury that knife deep in a kitchen drawer. She let him refocus, holding his hand gently and waiting until he was ready to talk again.
“I’m sorry, Emma,” he murmured tiredly, closing his eyes and leaning against her when she lightly squeezed his hand. Anything else was way off the table.
[She was above him, holding him down, forcing her fingers into his mouth-]
“We’ll work through this, ok?”
Paul was quiet for a moment.
“Ok…”
Another moment of silence.
“Have you thought about going back to the office yet?”
“No…I-I don’t think I can go back there…”
Emma nodded, “Makes sense.”
[No Ted, memories of M- her, getting the cold shoulder from Bill because he somehow still believed Paul to have been intruding on a “slumber party” – there was nothing good for him at that office, not that there ever was, but it had given him some purpose. Now he had nothing…]
Paul was broken from his thoughts when Emma nudged him, looking up to see a gentle yet worried look. He fleetingly wondered where her fire had gone to; it was because of him that it had been extinguished.
“Don’t go too far in there without me, Paul,” she said softly. Paul didn’t deserve her.
“Ok.”
~~~
New job? Check.
Regular(ish) therapy sessions? Half-check. Sometimes he couldn’t go through with it.
A support network? Well, he had Emma, and that was enough for now.
Nightmares? Double check.
Rapidly declining grip on reality? You’d better believe it.
Paul didn’t feel himself some days. Those were the days he’d call in sick and stay at home. Most of the time, Emma would still be in and she’d stay with him, help him go through the mantra he’d created, remind himself that he was a person who has control over what he does. But sometimes, on the days when Emma was out of the house early or he’d strategically avoid her because it was all too much, he’d sit and stare into nothing.
[There had been a day where everything had grown to a fever pitch in his head. A day when he’d avoided Emma more than before. She hadn’t had a shift that day, so she’d noticed. Emma tried to reach him, she tried so hard, but he ignored her. Paul hated himself for it. The taser buzz was loud and incessant and Paul just wanted it all to stop. He’d been so out of it that he hadn’t realised his entrance into the kitchen, nor how he’d drifted to the drawer he knew Emma had hidden the knife in.]
[It looked the same as the ones the girls had used on Ted.]
[He picked it up carefully. Some rational part of his brain told him that was a stupid idea, to put the knife back down and forget about it. That part of his brain was muffled by the taser still buzzing in his head.]
[If you’d asked Paul why he’d used it, he wouldn’t be able to tell you. Morbid curiosity? Or maybe some twisted desire to see how easy it was for a sharp blade to cut through skin? Whatever it had been, the pain had shocked him back into reality and he’d wiped off the knife, cleaned his wrist and put a plaster on it, put the offending item back in the drawer, and then he rang Emma. The rest of the day was spent watching cheesy movies and Emma reassuring Paul that he had nothing to apologise for.]
Today was one of the not-feeling-himself days. He’d woken up far too early from the few precious hours of sleep he’d managed to wrangle, he’d gone through his morning routine [toilet, brush teeth, wash face, get dressed, breakfast, shoes, coat, door] then walked around the block long enough to see the town start to wake up. A ping from his phone – the new one that Emma had bought for him – told him Emma was leaving and a few minutes later he saw her car drive off. He was alone.
[Like the cage. Ted’s body wrapped in the bedsheets and dumped to the side while he was left to stare at it. Alone. Like the hospital room, with its white walls and Freddie’s whiter teeth. Like the night he finally came back home.]
Paul hissed faintly, only realising how hard he’d been clenching his fists when he had to get his keys for the door. Blood welled in the crescents left in his palms and as he stepped inside [coat on the hook, shoes by the door, keys on the table] he realised suddenly that his thoughts had just…stopped. As soon as that pain had registered, his mind had gone blissfully silent.
“No…no no, don’t-” Paul squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He couldn’t go down that road, he couldn’t do that by himself; Emma would want to be here.
Emma without her spark. The sad Emma he’d created.
[He’d broken her. Broken like he was. He could see it in her eyes, how her heart had been shattered by him abandoning her for Me-…for the other one. Emma could be fixed though – she was fun and outgoing and strong in her morals, while Paul was just…he’s just a guy, no one important. He had no family, no more friends…he had nothing.]
[Why was he still here? Why hadn’t Melissa just got rid of him straight off, why had she felt the need to keep him? If she cared for cats so much, why not just let him go? What if the car had been driving faster? Would he be dead, or would it have left him comatose? Would Emma have- no. No she hadn’t known until he rang her.]
[No one would have cared if he’d died. No one would miss him at all.]
Paul sucked in a sharp breath, practically stabbing the back of his throat with the speed of it and resulting in a brief coughing fit.
[Ted was barking, alerting the girls of his escape. Stupid, he was a stupid kitty for thinking he could leave, for thinking Ted wouldn’t still be a sleazeball after everything he’s been through.]
He gasped, barely breathing now from the fear that burned through him at the sound of Ted’s barking in his ears because she’d be coming. Paul walked numbly to the kitchen, undoing the top button of his shirt to let him breathe- and headed to the sink for water. Only to stumble over his feet, which had been slow to catch up with where his brain expected him to be, and get sent crashing to the floor, knocking his head against a cupboard; the side that had been fractured.
Pain, sharp and bright yet quickly dulled, flared through his skull and stars burst in his eyes. It was blinding for less than a second, but it was so, so, freeing and that terrified Paul. His gaze, blurred though it was, travelled to the drawer with- he snapped his eyes shut again, shakily pushing himself off the floor. Maybe television could distract him.
Everything was awful. It was musicals or animals or cop shows with tasers-
[Fuck she’s here in his home, run-]
-and Paul had to switch it off. The silence in the house was just as unbearable. Paul sat, staring into the abyss of the tv screen, his legs bouncing anxiously as if he was preparing to bolt at any second. It felt like he should. The silence was unsafe, he couldn’t focus on anything other than that deafening quiet and the phantom crackling buzz of a taser. There had been a day like this one when Paul had tried white noise to drown out the silence, but that had just reminded him of her cruel tactics and he’d panicked – thankfully, Emma had been there, but for a second he’d been transported back to that flat.
He had to move. He was a person with free will after all, he could walk around whenever he pleased. His arms hurt. Paul looked down at them- oh. He was bleeding. How did that happen?
It was warm in Hatchetfield today, so Paul had rolled up his sleeves after he’d left the kitchen and that was all he needed really, since the summer was ending and with it went the hotter temperatures. He must have been squeezing his forearms hard enough for his nails to dig in. They’d drawn blood twice now, Paul would have to cut them later.
Upon inspection, he could tell that the small scratches weren’t very deep at all and he decided to at least clean them. The blood hadn’t run down his arms, so there were no stains for Emma to ask about in that awful, softly concerned way she had now.
This was how Paul ended up back in the kitchen with the Dangerous Drawer and the sting of water against fresh cuts and he hated how clearly he could think now. He didn’t know which was worse; pain-induced clarity or the horror fogged memory of- of things gone wrong. A sound left him; a pathetic, pitiful, strangled sound.
[Cat posters, cat pictures, cat pillows. If it’s dogs she hates, he’d pretend to be something more…feline. Submit and be cat-like. Be a good Puss.]
No. He’s human. His name is Paul Matthews and he’s a human being. Not a kitty. He’s home and free, not trapped in a cage with Ted- not Ted, Ted’s dead, remember?
Paul jolted and gasped, looking down at his arm still under the water. His other hand had found its way to the broken skin and pulled. It had been hard enough to scratch through more skin and his eyes watered at the sting but now it felt almost nice-
[She’d wrapped piano wire around his fingers, ready to “give back” his beans. It had hurt so much, bringing tears to his eyes as he pleaded fruitlessly with her. He’d lose them and be useless. He’d be fucking useless. Stop, please.]
The drawer was open.
Paul didn’t remember opening it, but there it was: wide open for anyone to see inside. The knife stared quietly up at him, and Paul froze. It was like it held him there, making him watch it carefully as if it was going to jump out of the draw and stab him.
[The squelch was disgusting, a horrifying sound that seared itself into Paul’s long-term memory, the knives had glinted menacingly in the light of M- her bedroom and Paul had felt his heart drop to his stomach and wasn’t that funny? Because it was Ted’s stomach that was getting torn to pieces like it was a fucking buffet. He wanted to scream, to cry, to throw up but- a good puss stayed quiet when they were told to.]
Looking at the knife to keep it there and keep himself safe would be fine…right?
Emma’s day had been…decent. Which was a nice change. Nora had been promoted to a different location so Beanie’s was now wonderfully musical-absent when Zoey wasn’t working on shift at the same time Emma was. Yeah, she could say she had a good day. Softly humming a random little tune to herself, Emma’s good mood was paused momentarily at the sight of Paul’s shoes in the hall. She hadn’t expected him to be home and the door had still been locked when she came back. It was…a little odd since he hated locked doors, but not entirely out of the blue since Paul was a sensible person who realised that locking his door was safer than leaving it open for anyone to wander in and kidnap him again. Although usually, if he came home first, he’d text Emma and leave the door unlocked.
The house was silent. Paul didn’t like the silence. Emma’s mood dropped.
“Paul?” There was no answer. With the house being so dark, she couldn’t help but think back to a few nights ago when she’d found Paul in the kitchen. Her eyes widened, realisation dawning. He’d normally respond to her unless…
Shit.
Dropping her bag in the hallway, Emma walked to the kitchen with panic rising in her throat, dreading what she’d find. Would Paul be ok? Safe? Had he just not realised how dark it was? Maybe he wasn’t even in the kitchen and just hadn’t heard her come in?
There was a shadow in the kitchen, standing over The Drawer™ with the Dangerous Thing™ in. Emma could see him trembling.
“Paul?” she called him again softly, but there was no snap back to the present this time; no scramble or panic to hide what he’d been looking at, not even any acknowledgement that he’d heard her. He just began to shake a little more and Emma could see his fingers grip the countertop even harder than they already were, his fingertips white with the force of it. She carefully made her way over to him, glancing down to see that the knife was still safely inside the drawer – thank fuck for that – before closing it. Paul blinked and finally looked at her. She smiled ever so slightly.
“Hey.”
“…Hey.” He glanced down to where the drawer had been – where the knife had been – and gasped softly. “Where…?”
“It’s still in there, I just closed it.”
“Oh…ok.”
“Ok?”
Paul nodded, “Ok.” Emma could tell that Paul wasn’t ok. Baby steps.
“Wanna tell me what happened?” she asked quietly. The dark demanded hushed voices.
“I…” Like the last time, he stopped himself, but didn’t instantly descend into panic. He just sounded small and sad. “I had to keep it safe.”
“From what?”
Paul shook his head, “Not what…her.”
Oh. He was talking about Melissa.
“She’s not here, Paul.”
“I know…but she could be- she escaped. Sh-she ran.”
[He remembered hearing Freddie behind him as he left the hospital, taking advantage of everyone being caught up in the search for her. He’d slipped out before the lockdown. Freddie had called for security, called for the lockdown. She’d escaped. She was gone, wild in the world again. If she found him…]
“I can’t go back, Emma,” he whispered, dropping his head, the tremors returning, “I-I can’t- she’d keep me alive in there.”
Emma frowned, instantly worried with how distraught Paul sounded at being kept alive, gently taking hold of his hands – cold to the touch – when it sent him deeper into his despair.
[He was hurting her. All he did was cause her pain. Ted’s “You’re fucking useless, Paul,” rang loud in his ears- Ted, oh God, he was dead, wasn’t he? Paul had caused his death. That was two people. Three, if you counted Bill’s disgust, which Paul absolutely did. He didn’t deserve to be here if all he was doing was hurting other people.]
“Paul?”
He couldn’t hear her anymore, too caught up in the noise in his head. Emma’s voice just joined the cacophony of giggles and barks and meows and squish, squelch, gurgling scream. It was the disgust from Bill – “You get out of their slumber party, you pervert!” – it was the quiet, firm, terrifying warnings from Melissa – “Not a sound, Puss. You don’t wanna get another dog killed, do you?” – it was Ted’s harsh words that told Paul maybe they never had a friendship to begin with – “You didn’t get your puppy beans! I got no sympathy for cats like you!” – hell, even Melissa’s friends had a say in the chaos with their “One day, we’ll put down all the dogs,” and “It was very naughty of him to interrupt our girl’s night.” Run, Bill. Run!
There was something against his hands – he was going to lose his fingers again, wasn’t he? No…no! Anything but that, please no, he’d nearly lost them once, he didn’t want to pretend again. He couldn’t be a cat- he wasn’t a cat, he was human and humans didn’t fucking meow to get out of danger! On the first pull away, there was resistance, so he clawed- scratched at whatever was in the way and pulled again. This time, he was let go, and Paul fell backwards with the momentum. He pushed himself away across the floor and hit a wall, curling tight into a ball to hide from the monster that was going to declaw a cat. That was just inhumane.
[He couldn’t breathe. He was going to die here…maybe that was for the best. His arms hurt again, louder this time, sharper than before. He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. He was fading…everything was fading…]
Emma could only watch as Paul spiralled further. She’d tried touching him gently, but that had just made it worse and hearing him whimper with fear and pain broke her heart. When she turned the light on, she could see why it sounded like he was hurting.
He was doing it to himself.
“Ok…ok, uh, Paul?”
He can’t hear you, remember? Emma shook her head, “Right, ok. Ok. I can do this. Ok.”
Paul was scared of something, but not Emma. He’d never been afraid of her.
She tried his name again, louder this time, but his nails were just digging harder into the meat of his arms and Emma was running out of options.
“Please…” She was almost begging with him at this point, so she did the only other logical thing she could think of.
She took hold of his arms and pulled them away from each other. She knew that touching his hands in any way when he was in this state was a bad idea, but she hoped that his arms wouldn’t be a new trigger.
Paul whimpered at the dull pain of her pressing against the scratches, but otherwise didn’t respond all that much except to struggle against her grip.
Emma cringed at how wet his arms were.
“Come on, Paul. It’s me, just me. It’s Emma.” Something must have broken through because Paul hesitated, his gaze flickering in her direction. “That’s it, you’re ok, you’re safe.” He mumbled something that sort of sounded like her name and considered it progress.
[Emma couldn’t be here. She’d never been to his torture room. Why was she with him? Had she…was she captive too? No…no no no, not her, please, not Emma! It…she reminded him of Mina…but she wasn’t Mina, was she? No, Emma wasn’t deranged. She wasn’t sick and twisted with a desire to stab him in the stomach over and over before dumping his body out in some dark alley – he vaguely remembered Ted’s body discovery on the radio, shutting it off quick but not before he’d heard “alleyway” – Emma wouldn’t do that!]
[…Would she?]
[No, of course not, he and Emma were friends. Friends who maybe had some lingering feelings but still friends. She’d kept him safe so far, he was safe, but she wasn’t. If Emma was with him then that would mean Mel- she had caught her too and Paul didn’t know what that woman did with other women, but Emma needed to run! Paul was chained, he was caged, he was trapped, he couldn’t escape this, but Emma could. Emma’s stronger. She’d survive.]
“Run…” Paul whispered fearfully, surprising Emma a little. It was the first coherent thing he’d said to her aside from the occasional call of someone named ‘Mina’, whoever that was.
“What are we running from?” He shook his head desperately, unable to articulate through the hazy fog of panic and dread, and Emma was still at a loss.
“You…run,” he repeated, now trying to push Emma away so that she could go…wherever it was she was supposed to be going. To avoid falling backwards, Emma moved away of her own accord, crouching nearby to watch Paul closely. If he was going to start hurting himself again, she’d stop it.
However, it seemed that as soon as Emma had moved to “safety” Paul calmed. Not completely, but he wasn’t as anxious about her as he was before. She felt a little disappointed that she couldn’t be a source of comfort for him, but she knew emotions were messy and conflicting – Jane’s funeral had been such a clusterfuck – so she wasn’t too upset over it. It was Paul’s mental state she was worried about the most. It felt like she was crouched there for hours, waiting and watching until Paul looked at her properly.
“Emma…” He was quiet and still a little scared.
“Hey, Paul.” She was quiet too, letting him know without words that it was alright to be scared.
“Wh-what…what are you doing here?”
“Work’s over, so I came back.”
“Already?” He was confused, his gaze flicking to the microwave clock – 16:32. Half past four.
“A couple of hours ago, yeah.”
“Oh…I didn’t realise…”
“Want me to clean those?” Emma asked gently, gesturing to Paul’s arms. He visibly cringed when he saw the state they were in, fingers twitching to clench around his arms again. He stopped himself and nodded with a soft “please.”
Once Paul had been bandaged up, Emma slid down to sit next to him. The methodical process of cleaning and covering his arms had finally brought Paul back down to Earth, which Emma was silently glad about. She felt exhausted herself, so she could only imagine how Paul felt right now. They sat for a long while in comfortable silence, Paul’s head resting lightly atop hers as she leant against his shoulder.
“You called me Mina…” she murmured eventually, having rolled the thought around in her head and debating whether it was a good idea to mention it or not. Paul stiffening against her made her curse herself.
“I did?” There was the small, quiet voice again.
“I shouldn’t have brought it up, sorr-”
“N-No…it’s ok.” Paul offered her a weak smile and Emma’s heart splintered further. “You want to know who she is, right?”
“I mean, kinda? But…but you don’t have to if it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t want to put that on you-”
“Emma.” He stopped her gently and she looked up at him, “I told you, it’s ok.”
“Is it, though? Really?” She looked into his eyes, searching them as best she could. Hell, she wasn’t a therapist, she wouldn’t know these things Jane was better at this but there was a carefully crafted confidence in his gaze, barely concealing the vulnerability that lay underneath. He wanted to tell her, but she had to let him speak it through.
“Really.”
Emma nodded slowly. “…Ok.”
After a breath, Paul told her about Melissa’s friends. The relief he had felt at first when they had all arrived in the apartment, thinking she had slipped up, but then the crushing despair at realising that the girls were all exactly the same.
[Aubrey had to put her dog down last week…]
Mina and Emma looked similar, Paul said. Not the same, he could never get them confused, but in his earlier panic he’d seen Mina instead of Emma and panicked harder. Mina had been the one to call Puss shy. She’d been the one who asked ‘Teddy-bear’ if he’d wanted to “play” with her. She’d been the one to run after Bill with a knife when he interrupted their “girls’ night”.
Maniacal. That was the word; Mina had been maniacal.
To Emma, it sounded like they all were: Mina’s quick actions to attack people, Chrissy and her whole “I’m just a silly girl” attitude, Melissa’s whole…thing. The only one who seemed even remotely normal was Aubrey, who’d been sad over ‘putting down her dog’ but even then it hadn’t been remorse at killing someone. It was the sadness of losing a pet. Emma shuddered a little, feeling nauseous.
“God, they’re all deranged,” Paul nodded in agreement. “How had no one noticed this? I mean, I thought it was kinda weird when she was all “oh, you would like dogs” and ordered just milk from Beanie’s for her new cat-” Emma paused, realising in an ‘oh shit’ moment that the cat would have been Paul, “-uh, but I-I just figured that it was her being overly fond of cats, y’know? If I’d known, I’d’ve…I-I’d have called the police- tried to find you, maybe? Not that I know where she lives, but-”
Emma’s ramble was once again stopped by Paul. He just pulled her into a hug, holding her tight. She knew what he meant – the ifs didn’t happen. They were in the past. It was all well and good thinking about the ifs, but there was no use in stressing over them because what had happened had already happened. They couldn’t change the past no matter how much they wanted to.
“I’m sorry, Paul,” she mumbled into his shoulder, “I should have tried harder.”
Paul shook his head against her, “You’re here now, that’s all I need.”
~~~
[It wasn’t long before Melissa’s obsession with cats turned weird. Ted had been locked in a different cage in the flat – she’d wanted privacy and didn’t want a dirty dog listening in – while Paul had been ordered to stay on the bed. She was humming a song that Paul vaguely recognised from his school history lessons.]
[“I get up early and sing this little song…”]
[It was very early for Melissa. She hated getting up early to go to work, reluctant to leave her bed that was “all warm and cosy from you, Puss.” But today she had special plans for him. He had to be a good Puss, a still Puss, a quiet Puss.]
[“Run doggy, run doggy, run, run, run. Zip, zap, zip, zap goes the trainer’s gun.”]
[That wasn’t the same song, Paul was sure of it. He wasn’t allowed to ask though, pinned where he was with her casually sitting over him and stroking his head adoringly. Her giggles were acidic. She told him what a good Puss he was, how she was glad she’d saved him from the naughty doggy. She wanted to reward him for being so good. Paul hadn’t felt rewarded.]
Shaken awake, the dream lingered disturbingly as the rest of the memory played on in a faded loop at the edges of Paul’s mind. He tried to push it away and think of something else, but a soft voice in his ear whispered “open wide, Puss, I don’t want you biting me with your sharp little fangs” and instead he pushed himself off the bed and out of the room. It was suffocating in there. He ignored the sleepy mumbles of Emma as she stirred.
[He couldn’t go outside. He’d get knocked over by another car because it was dark and cars can’t see things, they don’t have eyes, they won’t see the animals that run in front of them- no! Paul is not an animal. He’s human. He can easily walk on the pavement and be fine. It’s cold out there though…]
The kitchen was obviously off limits for many reasons. The bedroom was too raw…the living room? It was dark…and quiet…and lonely…
Paul couldn’t decide, all the voices in his head arguing with each other. So, he paced and walked between doorways and ultimately found himself staring blankly out of a window, drumming his fingers against the windowsill.
Why had it been that memory? There had been nothing about it for weeks now, but suddenly there it was, in his face-
[-and in his mouth and across his chest and down his legs and-]
Paul squeezed his eyes shut, resting his forehead against the cold glass. He took a few moments to breathe, the window fogging with condensation as he used the external temperature to cool his inner turmoil. He only jumped a little when he felt a pair of arms around him, quickly realising that it must be Emma.
“Bad dream?” she asked him quietly.
“Yeah,” he sighed. More like a nightmare, if Paul was being honest with himself. Emma squeezed him gently, prompting him to turn around and face her in the dark.
“Scale of bad?”
This gave Paul pause for a moment. How bad had it been, truly? He hadn’t panicked at another body in the bed, he’d been lucid enough to recognise that the kitchen was a bad idea, so…
“Beanies coffee but burnt.”
Emma hummed, curious but not pushing for answers. It was a middle of the road kind of answer. She yawned, hugging Paul again.
“Wanna go back to bed, or are you staying here for a bit?”
“…I’ll stay here.”
Emma nodded, staying with him in the quiet. This kind of quiet was good, Paul had decided. The quiet with Emma where they were just together in their own little bubble of safety. Where he could feel and hear her breathing with him, just existing in the same space. It was nice.
Now he’s home.