Page 41 of No Greater Love
"Nate," I said, more firmly this time, but careful not to touch him. Startling someone in this state could be dangerous— for both of us. "Nate, you're having a nightmare. You're safe. You're home."
"Can't stop the bleeding." His voice was different—younger, desperate. Tears leaked from the corners of his closed eyes. "Muta'asif... muta'asif..."
I didn't recognize the words, but the anguish was universal.
"She's just a kid," he choked out. "Thompson, NO!"
His body convulsed, back arching off the bed. I hit the bedside lamp switch, flooding the room with sudden light. Nate's eyes were open now, but unseeing, fixed on horrors I couldn't perceive.
"Nate," I said, keeping my voice calm but firm. "Nate, honey. It's Tasha. You're at home. You're safe. It's 2025. We’re in your bedroom."
His eyes darted around the room, wild and confused. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.
"I need you to breathe with me," I continued, making my own breathing deliberate and audible. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
Slowly, agonizingly, he began to come back. His eyes focused, found mine, recognition dawning with visible relief and then—worse—shame.
"Tasha." His voice was raw. "I—I'm so sorry."
"No, sweetie, no. Don’t apologize," I said, keeping my tone light and warm despite the ache in my chest. "I've woken up screaming about forgetting to study for exams. Your nightmares are at least justified."
He sat up, drawing his knees to his chest in an unconsciously protective gesture that reminded me so much of Paige that my throat tightened. He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to erase the evidence of tears.
"That hasn't happened in... a while," he said finally.
I waited, giving him space, though every instinct urged me to pull him into my arms.
"What were you saying?" I asked after a moment. "It sounded like... 'muta' something?"
"Muta'asif," he said softly. "It's Arabic. It means 'I'm sorry.'"
The words hung in the quiet room. I reached out slowly, telegraphing my movement, and placed my hand on his arm. The muscles beneath my fingers were still rigid with tension.
"Iraq?" I asked simply.
He nodded, eyes fixed on some middle distance. "I was nineteen. Almost twenty. Just a stupid kid who thought I was invincible." His laugh was hollow. "I volunteered to go. Didn't want to be stuck on some ship in the middle of the ocean. Pretty dumb idea to join the Navy, I guess, but I wasn't exactly thinking things through back then."
I let the silence stretch, knowing he needed to find his own way through this.
"Most of my time there was... I don't want to say routine, because there's nothing routine about war. But it was sporadic. You'd go weeks with nothing, then suddenly you're taking fire. You kind of get used to people taking shots at you." His voice took on a detached quality. "You can't leave the compound without expecting an improvised explosive device attack. But it wasn't... it wasn't sustained combat."
His hand found mine, fingers intertwining almost desperately.
"Then they came asking for volunteers. They didn’t have enough corpsmen for an operation.”
A tear slipped down his cheek, and this time he didn't try to hide it.
"I wasn't prepared. None of us were. Not for Fallujah."
The horror in his voice made me shiver despite the warmth of the room. I'd heard about Fallujah, of course. But it had only just barely made it into my American History class in high school. It wasn’treallyreal, it was just another entry in a textbook. Not something that had marked the man beside me so deeply that two decades years later, he still couldn't escape it in his dreams.
"They told us it was clear of civilians, but there were..." His voice caught. "There was a little girl."
Understanding clicked into place—the nightmare, the desperate pleas, the Arabic apology. The little girl from Iraq and his fierce protection of Paige. The pieces of Nate Crawford suddenly aligned in a way that made my chest ache.
"You don't have to tell me," I said softly.
"I do," he insisted. "I need to. I've never... I've never told anyone. Not really. Not everything."
