A.N. This book is tearing me apart. Really. It's not very good and kinda annoying and really cliche and romantically unrealistic at times and normally I would hate it except for the fact that Warner and Juliette are the reason I breathe.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Shatter Me series. Not like that.
and he sleeps
Warner can't remember his nightmare, but he remembers the emotions in it, remembers the despair, the fear, the crippling rage and sadness before a snap—as if he just saw someone die—as if he might have killed someone—before there is nothing and nothing and nothing until he finally wakes up from the fear of losing everything
and he can't see Juliette.
His eyes snap open, his face and body drenched in sweat, in fear, and all he wants is to see Juliette, and she's gone.
Just like he always knew she would be.
His body goes rigid, frozen, and he thinks his heart stops beating. He knows his heart stop beating. He stares at the empty space beside him in bed and wonders if maybe his dream was real. Juliette died, he killed her, she's gone, he has nothing and nothing and nothing
He's not processing that the bathroom light is on, that the toilet is flushing and water is running and her spot on the bed is still warm from her skin. He just keeps hearing the silence in his room, in his body, echoing in his ears, and he wishes it would stop, would it please just stop, stop, she's gone, she's gone
"Juliette," he whispers, because he can, because he can't help himself, because he thinks that if he doesn't say her name it'll mean she isn't real, and she is, she was, she's gone
and the bathroom door is opening and feet are silently making their way to the bed, but Warner can't move, can't bring himself to breathe, and Juliette is sliding into bed and smiling in quiet surprise when she notices he's awake.
"Sorry," she whispers. She pulls the blanket up to her shoulders before burrowing into Warner's body. She shivers off the last bit of chill from the air before she sighs in content.
She kisses his chest, right above his heart. Once.
Twice.
Three times.
His heart thuds heavily in his chest after each press of her lips.
His arms slowly move from their cramped position by his chest—where they had frozen, where he thought he'd leave them to die—and he wraps them around her slowly, like she'll disappear again if he moves too quickly.
She snuggles in closer, hums a breath, and Warner suddenly can't handle how much of her there is, how much of her is real, in his arms, beside his body, warming him, feeling him.
He thinks he might cry but he doesn't; he just pulls her as close to his chest as possible as slowly as he can, still afraid, still unable to breathe
and Juliette rouses herself just enough to ask him why his arms are trembling
and he wishes he could say something but he can't, all he can do is press his face into Juliette's neck and breathe and breathe and breathe before he kisses her neck, right on her pulse, over and over and over, until her heart beat matches his.
