Page 37 of Lost in You

“I had a nightmare, Linc. I’m sorry I scared you.”

His exhale is heavy with relief. “Fuck. The way you screamed, I thought--”

“I’m sorry.”

I close my eyes, shame edging in to compete with my relief. Anxiety even follows me into sleep. Why am I like this? I just want to have normal dreams, like being able to fly.

“Hey.” Lincoln’s tone is soft, his voice closer to me now. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

He gets back into bed and pulls the covers over himself.

“You’re exhausted and I woke--” I stop talking as he pulls me into his arms, making sure my back stays covered by blankets.

“What was your nightmare about?” he asks.

I settle my cheek against his chest, his warm skin and strong embrace soothing me. He’s not even a little bit irritated. My college boyfriend wouldn’t stay the night with me because of my nightmares and the sleep they cost him.

“I was drowning.”

“Damn. I’ve never had that one. My most frequent nightmare is that I shoot a goal for the other team and it wins them the game.”

I smile, amused. “Where does that even come from?”

“Probably my unhealthy obsession with winning.”

I’ve never snuggled against a man with a body like his. My palm rests on his chest, where I can feel his heart beating. My knee rests against his thigh and I think about hooking it over his leg, quickly dismissing the idea.

Just this. This comforting embrace is more contact than I’ve had with a man in a very long time, and it feels good. I don’t want anything to ruin it.

“Where does the drowning nightmare come from?” he asks, his breath a warm caress on my forehead.

“Oh, um...I guess from my deep-seated anxiety?”

There’s a moment of silence before he speaks again. “Is that something you’re comfortable talking about, or should we talk about something else?”

“My anxiety?” His question catches me by surprise.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t mind talking about it.”

“My teammate who had depression, his name was Jacques. And the thing he hated about it the most was that it would hit him out of nowhere sometimes. He’d say he had nothing to be depressed about, but it was there anyway. Is your anxiety like that?”

I hum softly against his chest, feeling seen. “Very much so. Anxiety is my baseline. I don’t have to have a legitimate thing to worry about, but when I do have something big, it spirals. Or I guess it used to. The medication I’m on has been life-changing.”

“When did you go on it?”

“In college. I was twenty-one and there was a campus therapist who told me about it.”

He pulls me the tiniest bit closer and my pulse quickens. Am I just starved for human companionship, or are these feelings I’m having for him real?

“How’s the withdrawal going?” he asks.

“Better. The sickness is a lot better, but...I don’t know; it’s just an adjustment. I forgot what it feels like to have anxiety at the forefront of my mind all the time.”

“If there’s ever anything I can do to help with it, let me know.”

A wave of longing passes through me. My close friends and family who know about my anxiety aren’t unsupportive, but they’ve never actually talked to me about it this way. And romantic partners have all been judgmental, wanting to know why I was anxious and how to fix it.

---