"What's wrong with you?" She asks, and it's the middle of the night, everything is dark, and her voice is groggy because he's woken her up with all his fidgeting. She almost means it as a joke because there's nothing to be wrong, except maybe he feels guilty for having a majority of the blankets on his side of the bed.
He can't sleep because he's waiting, he can't sleep just in case, but he doesn't tell her this and hopes the room is filled with enough blackness to hide his anxious face.
"Nothing," he lies and wraps his arms around her, around the cotton layers that protect him from skin, and maybe she'll just let him be, let him and his thoughts and his pain and his dread and his suffering and his waiting and maybe she'll let them be. "Nothing is wrong," he says but he stares at the nearly invisible ceiling and counts the seconds until he hears the screaming.
She's alert again when the door clicks shut, and she tries to be surprised that he's gone so quickly.