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The nights were always the hardest.
During the day, he could keep himself busy, keep his mind off of the looming fears and anxieties always growing in the back of his mind, always weighing him down. He had a routine. The routine would keep him safe.
That’s what he told himself, anyway, and it had stayed true so far. He couldn’t risk any slip ups.
It had been two years since Tim drove away from the horrors that had been haunting him ever since he was a child. It had been two years since the only people he could call his friends had died gruesome, tragic deaths. And he did nothing to stop it.
He would say that things were getting better, because they were. But progress wasn’t linear. And the good days were still few and far in between.
And he had you. You, who were so patient and kind, who were miles away from the site of disaster. You weren’t poisoned by his past. You were precious. You were safe.
So when he woke up from a nightmare, a memory not so distant, sweating and shaking and scared for his life, he knew he could turn to you. You would always be there. You would never leave. He would keep you safe, like he couldn’t keep his friends safe before.
He shook you gently, not wanting to startle you, because he never wanted you to feel fear like he had known once before, and called your name when you stirred.
“Hey, baby, is everything okay?” You asked, noticing the tear tracks on his cheeks, the way he was still silently shaking.
You held his face in your hands as softly as possible, your thumbs wiping away his tears. He placed his hands on your forearms, leaning into you for comfort.
“Nightmares again,” he replied, his voice unsteady between heavy breaths as he tried to gain his composure.
You nodded in understanding, pulling back to take in his appearance. His blue shirt was soaked with sweat, his hair damp and stuck to his face, and he looked an absolute mess. But he was your mess. And you were going to help clean him up.
“Let’s get you in the bath, yeah?” It was more of a statement than a question, because you knew he would agree. He always had trouble falling back asleep after having a nightmare, and a hot bath would calm him right down.
He was grateful you didn’t ask about the dream. You never did anymore, because he never wanted to talk about them. How could he? He couldn’t even believe what had happened sometimes, so how could he expect you to?
And besides, that was the past. You were now. You were safe. He had to keep you safe. As far away from the past as possible.
He nodded in agreement, and you stepped out of bed to head to the bathroom. Tim followed after, never letting go of your hand as if he was afraid you would fade away if he did.
Tim sat on the toilet as you ran the water, setting it to the perfect temperature, just hot enough where steam would rise and his skin would redden the slightest bit. It wouldn’t burn, but it would help him cope with the emotions he was feeling. It would help him feel again.
As the bath began to fill, you turned to your boyfriend, a soft smile on your face. He smiled back, though it didn’t meet his eyes, and you could see in his expression how tired he truly was.
“Lift your arms up.”
He did as he was told, and you took off the damp shirt with ease, discarding it without a care to be picked up later. Tim rid himself of his shorts and boxers afterwards, looking at you expectantly after he did.
“You’re so beautiful, darling. Do you know that?” You asked, taking in his pale skin and the scars that littered it. He hadn’t divulged what they were from, and you didn’t know when he would, but you knew he had been through hell.
His cheeks reddened, and he covered his stomach with his arms, smiling a bit broader this time. “You’re always sugaring me up.”
“I believe the correct term is ‘buttering me up’,” you corrected with a smile, and he shrugged in response.
He was unbelievably grateful for you in times like these. You were so patient. So kind. So loving. He didn’t think anyone would be able to love him like this; he was a broken remnant of what might have once been a man, if you squinted in the right light.
But you loved him still. You hadn’t said it yet, but he could feel it in everything you did.
And on nights like these, you helped him recover. He didn’t know what he would do without you. He couldn’t bear to think of it.
As he settled into the bath, letting the hot water soothe his aching muscles, he thought that maybe he should portray these feelings to you somehow. Maybe with his words, with his body, any way that he could, but he wasn’t functioning properly.
He didn’t want to scare you away. He didn’t want to say something out loud, to make this real, to give anything or anyone a reason to rip you away from his grasp.
But he had to do something. To make sure you knew how appreciated you were, how much you changed his life.
So he reached out, grabbed your arm from where you were situated beside the tub, and said the words he’d been too scared to until this moment.
“I love you.”
The way you looked at him made it worth all the fear, all the worries. You looked at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and he did it all for you. And he would’ve, had you asked. He would do anything for you.
The position was uncomfortable, but you made it work; up on your knees, you leaned over the side of the tub to kiss him firmly on the lips, your hand grazing his stubble.
Before he could kiss back, you pulled away, a smile on your lips. “I love you,” you replied, as earnestly as ever.
And then you continued on like normal. Because, really, both of you had already known. The love you shared was palpable, you could feel it in the air that surrounded you. It was just a matter of saying the words.
You used the cup on the bath to get his hair wet, scooping water from the tub and pouring it on his head gently. You used his favorite shampoo, tea tree and coconut, and scrubbed it into his hair with purpose.
Once you had rinsed his hair, when the water had cooled down, you gave him a gentle massage on his shoulders.
The silence between you two was comforting, you undoing tension knots in his broad shoulders, thinking about tomorrow’s plans, while he wondered if he would ever divulge his past to you.
If he could tell anyone, you would be the person. A therapist would just lock him up somewhere dreadful and awful, make him be in a padded room for the rest of his miserable life. And he didn’t think he could survive without you next to him at night.
He just needed a way to bring it up. He needed a way to ease into the conversation, to be sure you wouldn’t run away screaming as soon as he opened his mouth to speak.
Later on, after Tim had dried off and changed into a new pair of pajamas, the two of you laid in bed together.
Your limbs were intertwined, you were as close together as physics would allow, your hands in Tim’s hair and his head on your chest.
He had to do it, he decided. This was the only way he would grow, if he shared this trauma and this pain with someone who he knew could help. And that someone was you.
So, with a deep breath and a heavy heart, he began to share his past with you. And he knew, deep down, that you wouldn’t leave.