Sleep, that was what she needed. Nightmares kept plaguing her nights, gunshots and screams and deafening silence, and she didn't know how to chase them away.
In the end she swallowed her pride and knocked on his door; he stared at her for a silent moment, then simply let her in.
"You can have John's old room," he told her at length, and she had to dig her fingernails into her palms in order not to break down and cry.
It was in the dead of the night that she woke up from a tortuous dream to find a familiar presence looming over her in the darkness.
"Why don't you hate me?" she asked somewhat unnecessarily; she needed to hear it from his own mouth, needed to know that someone was there at her side in spite of everything.
"We're two of a kind, you and I," he said matter-of-factly. "This is what we do."
She stifled a sob when she felt the mattress dip and a tentative arm wrapped protectively around her belly.
"I'll talk him round," he added, echoing a previous conversation; the hint of a smile flickered across her lips, and she leaned back into his embrace.