Marla
Nightmares were nothing new. Alma was half certain Bonnie and Linda would go mad with how often Alma found herself lurching awake, upside down on the bed and the blankets knocked to the floor from the fits she'd have in her sleep. Her heart was always pounding as if she'd just been runnin' for her life, and that was mostly because she had been. Dog had long learned to press his head down on her chest to try and wake her up, and that worked most of the time. But there were some nights where the dreams' talons were in too deep and nothing could rouse her except for herself. 

Tonight had been one of those nights. 

Alma slowly sat up, her body still shaking and aching from the memories. She dragged her wrist across her forehead. Cold sweat came with it. She climbed to her feet, mindful of the creaky floorboards she'd learned about in her months of living with the Sterlings, and poured herself a sip of water from the glass carafe she'd taken to keeping on her nightstand for moments like these. The water was cool and fresh. It reminded her that she was in her body just as much as she was in her mind. She perched herself on the edge of the bed and ran her thumb along the vertical ridges of the cup. Another trick she'd learned to not dwell on the people she'd buried and the teeth she'd felt. 
_ _

And so began a familiar ritual. A set of rules to calm herself down. She thought of Shady as he was now: the curls of his hair and the smirk that always crept into his smile. It helped her draw the line between beast and man, even if she swore he sometimes looked at her like he still wanted to dig his teeth in and never let go. She thought of Dog and how he set his head in her lap and *Thud-thud-thudded* His tail against the bedroom floor. She absentmindedly ran her other hand over the ridge of his head and she thought of the reassurance of Rhett's hand pressed into hers. The feeling of his arms wrapped around her and the warmth radiating from his chest. The way just being in the same room as him kept her whole when she was sure she'd fall apart any second over how hurt he was. 

If she closed her eyes and pretended hard enough, she could hear the soft rumble of his laughter. Admire the memory of how sunlight set his hair ablaze when it hit him just right. Imagine what it'd felt like to curl up on his chest that one and only night she'd been drunk and brave enough to fall asleep in his arms. Remember her thumb going numb as it ran over his knuckles again and again and again while he lay half-dead and all she could do was share the same air as him. She'd spent so many nights on that floor beside his recovery bed, weeping and praying and whispering and loving that now that he was well enough to be back in his own shack, Alma's ritual had fallen to tatters. 
_ _

Alma stood and replaced the glass. Dog looked up at her in confusion. It was pitch dark out. If she had to venture a guess, it was only two or three in the morning. All the world was still asleep except for her. She could fix it. She could make sure he was still breathing, just like she'd done for weeks now. She wouldn't be able to rest until she knew in her heart that he was alright. She covered her nightslip with the cape that hung by her bedroom door. The days were warmer now, but the night winds could still cut right through to the bone if you weren't careful. But the walk to Rhett's shack was a quick one that she made on bare feet. She cursed herself halfway through it, the half-frozen blades of grass sending familiar pangs through the balls of her feet. The wood of his front porch wasn't much kinder. 

It was here that Alma froze. He would be asleep. She would be waking him. Asking him to open the door on a broken ankle. She half considered turning around and heading back to where she belonged. It wasn't proper of her to be out this late at night. But her knuckles found themselves rapping against his door, regardless. 

"Rhett?" She called quietly. "Are you awake?"
Estelle
Spider heard the knock first, rousing from her sleep on the pillow next to her owner's head. The depression of the pillow in turn woke Rhett, who blinked into the dark of the shack, bleary at first, then suddenly startled. He wrenched himself upright too quick, met with an urgent chorus of pain that echoed down from his jaw, to neck, to ribs, then to his bad arm as he absently tried to put weight on it to get off the bed, and lastly his ankle as he took a delirious step towards the door. 

"Shit," He hissed, squeezing his eyes tight for a moment as the pain receded. Hobbling down from the low platform that elevated his bedroom from the kitchen, he followed Spider past the stove to Alma's voice. 

"Alma?" He called, before he could even unlock the door. He swung it open. While Alma was bundled in her cape, Rhett stood before her, less clothed than she'd likely ever seen him. His feet were bare, as was his torso, save for the angry red scars that ran down from his neck in parallel claw lines, and the sickly bruise-yellow haze that had evidenced his broken ribs. The hairs on his chest and belly were fine and mousy brown, and his thin frame suggested the presence of muscle even though much of his toning had been lost to a combination of stress, malnourishment, and injury. A pair of loose linen pants were synched around his waist with a frayed drawstring, hanging low enough below his navel to betray the parentheses of his hip bones just there above the waistband. 
_ _

"Come in here, come in. Are you alright?" Rhett ushered her inside, instinctually curling an arm around her shoulders. He was at war with himself: blinking away remnants of odd dreams, fending off yawns, scraping his fingers through his messy hair to appear presentable. Most of his mind was still submerged in sleep, and he was having trouble reconciling her presence.

"You ain't sleepwalkin', are ya?" The absurdity brought a bit of smirk to his lips. The other option, of course, was that she'd come here willingly.Usually she had food with her, or a snippet of a project to discuss. Alma *Always* Came armed with an excuse for her visits, but here, in the dead of night, she seemed without one. Getting ahead of himself, Rhett's heart skipped. Was she here because she wanted to see him? His half-slumbering mind was already placing them together in his bed, falling back into dreams together, reliving the nights Alma had spent curled beside him in his sick bed, except this time he could hold her freely. 
_ _
Marla
As soon as she heard his voice call for her, the tension left her shoulders. He was alive. He was well. He was opening the door. He was half dressed. 

*Oh, good LORD.*

At first, the way her eyes combed over his frame was purely innocent. It was hard not to trace the newly formed scars as they flowed from his neck down to the bruising of his still-healing ribs. His cast was level with his torso, so she *Naturally* Caught a glimpse of the hairs that trailed from his chest down to his— *Focus!*

"Th-thank you," What a *Wretched* Time for her stutter to rear its head. His arm wrapped around her should have been a balm, not a fire. "I'm alright. A-And, no, I ain't sleep walkin." That joke did have her laughing a little, dispelling some of the nervous energy she'd carried through the doorway with her. The shack he'd made into a proper home had a way of doing that to her. Here, surrounded by whispers labor he'd poured into the drywall and furniture itself, Alma felt secure. It was warm and dry and her feet were grateful for it. She took a second to wipe her feet so she didn't drag grass everywhere. She always treated it like it was a proper place. It deserved nothing less. 

"I-," She paused, knowing how childish she was about to sound. "- had a nightmare. Worse'n usual one, anyway," She explained as Dog weaved himself through the door before it could shut behind them with the locks slid back into place. The great big bloodhound yawned and flopped himself down in front of the woodstove like he usually did, his jowls flattening into puddles around him. He seemed to say: *My shift's over. You take over now.* 
_ _

Alma made it a point not to look at Rhett. His state of undress wasn't something she should allow herself to be so affected by. She'd seen shirtless men before plenty of times, be it working out in the fields or base jumping into the blue holes. But this was *Rhett*. Her Rhett. The same one who'd been confessing his love for her in a drug-induced haze a few weeks back. The one whose sentiment she was still working through to return. She couldn't afford to let herself think on it - or the way those pants sat dangerously on his hips - too long. 

"I just... Needed to see you's all." Her hands went for his uninjured one, her slender fingers wrapping around his like a lifeline. Like that was precisely where her hand belonged even at this hour. Her cape parted around her arms, revealing to him that she herself was in a state of relative undress. Just a black night slip that was hemmed just a bit lower than the knees. "Needed to know you was okay. It sure was easier when you were back at the big house." Her voice lifted in another soft laugh.

"I'm awful sorry I made you get out of bed. Here, lemme help you walk back."
Estelle
Sleep drunk and unconfident in the fact that he wasn't actually dreaming, Rhett barely caught the way Alma looked at him. *Looked.* Had she ever given him that kind of attention? He liked it, and soon thereafter this realization, became ashamed at his enjoyment. She was stuttering, he realized, and didn't that usually mean she was overcome? With what, though? 

Spider untangled herself from Alma's ankles as Dog made his entrance. Immediately, the little black cat was wide awake and puffed up, scrabbling along the floor to pounce on Dog as he rolled over by the stove. She had one of his ears in her mouth, her back feet kicking playfully at his shoulder. Dog shifted and she rolled off of him, landing in a deposit of ash near the fire hook. Dusty and disgraced, she raced off back into the dark of the workshop, ears back and tail like a bottlebrush. A muffled clattering sound followed her disappearance, but Rhett paid it no mind, his drowsy attention focused completely on Alma. 

Only because of how he'd been watching for her eyes to make their way back to him, he noticed how she was looking anywhere *But*, and finally he gained the sense to be self conscious of his bare chest. Every option to cover up now seemed awkward and sudden, so he opted to put his fists in his pockets, hunching forward sheepishly in a half-shrugged attempt at smallness. He was doing a poor job of listening and responding and watching her all at once, and only caught the word *Nightmare* Past another stifled yawn. When she reached for his hand, he understood what to do, though, unburdened by the pressure to respond verbally. She'd opened the door for touch, and he twined their fingers, immediately lifting her hand to kiss the back of it, brushing lips over her knuckles: perhaps indulgent as more of an act of self-soothing than it might have been for Alma. He hoped she didn't find it offensive. 
_ _

Rhett would *Never* Be too sleepy to notice the way her cape parted. Even with his eyes mostly closed, he would have seen the dark of her night slip reveal itself. Now, he was the one staring, dragging his glassy-eyed gaze from her hem to collarbones. He stepped a bit closer to her, to the soundtrack of her voice so low and private. 

"It *Were* Easier, weren't it? Got spoiled, bein' so close whenever I wanted ta see ya." He replied, his own voice down a notch. 
"I'm okay, Alma. I'm sorry your brain made'ja think I weren't." He squeezed her hand, letting her lead him back up to bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress and looked up at her. 

"Now *I* Gotta see that you're okay. Come on, now. Set down, love." His smile was weak but warm, and finally, he succumbed to a yawn as he patted the bed beside himself. 

_ _
Marla
The whisper of Rhett's lips against the skin on her knuckles set a soft warmth glowing in Alma's cheeks. The action was as chaste as every other thing they'd done. Alma truly meant it when she described Rhett as a gentleman. Small gestures like these reminded her she was safe. No, that she was loved. His unyielding patience with her was the world to her. *He* Was her world. And the nightmare had reminded her of how fragile that world was. Even now, with the uneven *Thud* Of his wrapped foot on the floor as they crossed to his bed, she couldn't help but wonder at how lucky he was to be alive. The both of them, really. 

Only Alma's scar had healed up in a matter of weeks, and he was still fighting to walk right. 

If she wasn't so focused on his state of being, the low tone of his voice might have made her blush harder. She was attuned to his every shift, hanging off the slightest pitch in his voice or the way he inhaled before he spoke as a language in its own right. She fretted over him as he eased himself down on the mattress, wishing he would use her as a crutch to help some of the ache. 

"You're okay," She repeated, but she didn't sound like she believed it. Her eyes were scanning his for any unspoken pain as if she feared his wounds might have somehow reopened from the nightmare *She* Had experienced. As if another beast had launched its way through his window just to tear off his bandages and destroy him anew. But all she found in the coffee-brown depths of his gaze was warmth, just like always. Exhaustion, sure, but warmth. Trust. Affection. 
_ _

That was only compounded by the way he called her *Love*. It was a word that still sent her heart pounding at the slightest whisper of it. Those four letters held power over her. He bade her sit and her fingers undid the clasp on her cape so she could drape it over the foot of his bed without a breath of protest like she might have had he not had such a grip on her heart. A small voice whispered in the back of her mind she didn't belong here. This bed was his, not hers. This was improper. It was late. Bonnie and Linda would question her whereabouts come morning. Miss Alma Maria Cooper didn't behave like this. 

But he called her love and the spell was cast.

Still, unable to ignore her instinct to flee, Alma perched like a feather on the edge of his bed, her legs coiled beneath her and ready to sprint at the slightest provocation. Her knee, exposed now thanks to the shortness of the slip she'd worn to bed, brushed against his leg. Her shoulders were now bare save for the two small straps holding the [slip]( in place. Her nervousness at being placed in such a precarious position was communicated in the way she pressed her palms together in her lap, refusing to look him in the eye *Again*. 
_ _

"I'm okay, Rhett. Better now that I seen't you, actually. Knowin' you're breathin' is all's I really needed. You walkin' n' talkin's even better still." There had been times where the question of his breathing would wrench her from her sleep just so she could place a slender hand on his broken chest and feel the soft shift of his every inhalation, her forehead pressed to his cold knuckles. She would wake in the morning in that same position on the floor, an awful ache in her neck but *Knowing* That every second spent by his side was a second longer that he was still alive. 

"Really-," She paused a moment, deliberating how she might return the affection that one word alone had set alight in her bones without repeating it back to him. Finally, she settled on, "-*Honey*, I'm okay. A little ashamed'a myself, of course. I... I know you're alright. N' you need your rest to heal up quick, n' here I am disturbin' you just cause I cain't talk myself down off a ledge after one bad dream. So, I'm sorry. I should go."
Estelle
"Jest you watch– I kin even do a handstand now you're here." He laughed, low and silly. His posture was slumped, even more than usual as he craned his head down to be even with Alma, watching her speak with a sleepy fascination. Still, she avoided his eye, and in the dark of the witching hour, he found it– of all things– endearing. She'd come here to check on him, and she was being adorably bashful about it, her hands pressed like a prayer between her knees. 

A warm, appreciative sound hummed from his throat as she offered him a pet name of his own. He leaned his shoulder towards hers, and turned to kiss her hair. 
"I wish you wasn't sorry," He told her, "And I wish you'd stay a spell longer. You jest got here." Rhett complained, aware at some level that he was showcasing the softness of his underbelly to a degree that may be unattractive, but he truly couldn't help it. His sleepiness was strong as moonshine in how it loosened his tongue and weighted his hands. 

"Plus, you walked all the way out here in bare feet. They must be ice. Here," He sat up a bit straighter only to peel back the quilt around her, making space for her to tuck her feet up into the warmed bed should she so desire. 
_ _```

Rhett yawned again, stretching his good arm until a joint popped in his shoulder. He winced, shifted to tuck a leg up under himself, and turned fully towards Alma. Idly, he lifted a hand to smooth back her hair– tangled from her battle with bad dreams. From her temple to her ear, he combed it with his fingers, veering from the knots he encountered. At the ends, he organized the chaotic strands together across her back. In doing so, he pulled back the curtain around her shoulders. 

"It's a pretty thing you're wearin'. Black suits you." He murmured, withdrawing his hand to lean back on it, openly admiring her, his drowsy smile curling crooked on his lips, "But I ain't seen you wear a color that don't."
_ _