The Second Day
After shift Tuesday, she invited him over again, which wasn't unusual because there were no self-imposed limits on how many hours a day or days a week the two spent together, only nights. After all, they'd been working together for nearly a decade and spending time together was second nature to them, even before they were official.
A walk. They'd decided to take a walk. Or she had, because he hadn't been very talkative all day. Her neighborhood was calm and though they kept up a comfortable conversation, he seemed distracted. She didn't need to know him as well as she did to know what was on his mind. On their way back, she leaned toward him.
"Stay over tonight?"
His pace slowed for a moment. "Again?"
She searched him for clues. "If you want."
"I do," he admitted, "but what about our rule?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "Our rule says two. Today is two."
He considered it for a moment. Their rule. On the surface, it was a dumb rule, but he knew it was what kept them from rushing too deep too fast and ruining their fragile relationship.
Twice a week, he stayed the night at her place, in her bed, his body flush against hers. It'd be a night of quiet words and teasing kisses, until she got that look in her eyes and climbed over him with a fiery intent. Two nights a week. Never less; never more. It was a number they'd agreed on together, though in truth, it was more for her. She needed time and space, and a multitude of irrational environmental restrictions that kept their relationship on track and maintained her sense of control. In some ways, he needed the limits too, so he cherished the two they had and spent the other five waiting for a call he knew wouldn't come. But it worked for them.
Fridays and Saturdays were the easiest on their busy work schedules, but occasionally, after a particularly rough shift, one would request to move it earlier in the week and the other was always eager to comply. They'd never, however, used up both days by Tuesday.
But he found himself craving her presence, her quiet strength, and he knew that it was the only reason he'd managed to even fall asleep the night before. He needed her. In his darkest moments, he needed her to keep him grounded, to keep him going.
Finally, as they neared her house, he nodded. "Okay."
She led him inside. Moments later, she was at the stove, fixing something for them to eat. He slipped behind her and kissed the base of her neck.
"What are you making?" he asked, letting his lips trail up to her ear.
"Pasta," she replied, instinctively tilting her head to give him access. "What are you doing?"
He spun her around and pinned her against the kitchen counter. "Let's just order something," he murmured, leaning down to properly kiss her. His fingers skimmed down her sides and came to rest on her hips. She opened her mouth to him and moaned when she felt his lips and tongue move with an unparalleled intensity.
When he finally pulled away, she smiled. "Why? Got other plans?"
He pulled her toward him. "Yeah, is that okay?" His tone was teasing, but she understood that his request went deeper than physical need. It'd been a rough couple of days, and she couldn't blame him for wanting to feel something, wanting to forget.
She took his hand and brought him upstairs, and for the next hour and a half, she helped him to feel, helped him to forget. It began sweet, and he remained gentle, though she sensed moments of aggression and desperation. The second time, she let him take the reins, being careful to maintain a comfortable pace for the both of them. The third was rougher, sharper around the edges, but she knew that he needed it. She came to realize that she needed the release as much as he did, and when they were finally sated, the perspiration sticking to their skin, he held her quietly, rocked her.
They stayed there, nearly motionless, until Calleigh's stomach let out a loud, dissatisfied grumble.
Eric chuckled. "Sorry I kept you from dinner."
She shook her head. "It's okay. I needed this, too."
He pressed his lip against her shoulder and blew a raspberry against her skin. She laughed and pushed his head away. The two fell into silence again, until she shifted against him and posed a question that'd been bothering her.
"Can I ask you a question that might anger you?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
She allowed another minute to pass before quietly asking, "Have you been seeing a psychiatrist since Dr. Marsh?"
He studied her for a moment. "Yeah, I never stopped. The department assigned me to someone else."
Struggling for words, she tried to figure out how to broach the topic without shutting him down. "When are you seeing her?"
"It's a him," he replied, "and I have an appointment Thursday."
She looked carefully into his eyes. "Will you talk to him about what happened this week?"
He buried his face into her hair. "Calleigh, I don't want to have this conversation."
She allowed her fingers to wander up his neck until she felt the beginning of short, prickly hair. "You should with someone."
He sighed. "I will," he acquiesced. He moved his hand over her bare abdomen. "Can I talk to you?"
Hunger forgotten, she turned to face him. "Of course," she replied, searching for hints across his features, but he was still clutching his cards close.
Her compassion made it easier to verbalize his fears, though it still took him a moment to form something resembling the thoughts inundating his mind. "You know what I was thinking when I was in there, before you came to visit?"
Despite being terrified of his response, she asked, "What's that?"
"I was wondering if you'd show up," he admitted with a dry chuckle. He traced shapes along her side with his fingertip. "If I'd ever see you like this again."
The idea that he'd questioned their foundation rocked her. "How could you doubt that?" she asked quietly.
His eyes closed, almost as if bracing for something. "I don't know. Are you upset?"
She shook her head, even though he couldn't see her. "Eric, I'm not running away because of something entirely out of your control," she reassured him, pressing a quick kiss to his collarbone. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."
Though his eyes remained closed, a small smile appeared across his lips. "I know that now." He peered at her from behind heavy lids. "When you showed up and sat there and talked to me, told me that it was okay, that you were sticking around, that meant a lot to me." His words were quiet but his meaning was potent, and his honesty struck her hard.
She smiled faintly. "Is it crazy that we've been together for three weeks and I already can't imagine not having you like this?"
He chuckled and pulled her tighter against him. "Not crazy. I've never felt like this with anyone."
Her stomach grumbled again, and this time, they slid out of bed and got dressed. He ordered some pizza, and they spent the next few hours just… relaxing. They laughed, experienced genuine happiness and taught each other a lesson in unconditional love. And for the first time, he truly believed that what they had together would help him through, help him heal. Having her, finally, finally, infused him with a feeling of invincibility. He'd get past this. Not today, not tomorrow, but over time.
That night, after the pizza was long gone, after they'd taken a quiet shower together, he lay in bed beside her for the second time in two nights. She held him tightly; he didn't have to ask this time, and with the knowledge of forever fresh in his mind, his slumber was devoid of the nightmares he'd prepared himself for. She was the only dream catcher he'd ever need.
