Page 67 of Graves

Aran’s eyelids twitch, followed by a slight tremor in his hands. He makes a muffled sound and turns his head. His jaw muscles tense and he clenches his teeth.

His breathing speeds up, and he lunges forward, reaching out as if trying to push something—or someone—away. When he arches his back, Pixie jumps up in fright and flees.

A suppressed groan escapes his lips. He twists in pain onto his back and throws his head to the other side.

“Aran,” I say, but I don’t dare touch him. “Wake up.”

As if his whole body is in a cramp, he stiffens. Even his breathing stops as he claws at his chest like he’s being strangled. Blood rushes to his face and he kicks his legs as if trying to stay afloat.

“Aran!” I call, turning his face toward me. I feel the tension in his jaw and the fine stubble on his cheek.

He jerks awake, eyes flying open. When he sees me, he flinches back hard, breathing like he just escaped death. He gapes at me in horror. Wiping cold sweat from his forehead, he scans his surroundings, disoriented.

“You were dreaming.”

Aran’s chest heaves. He squints at me almost disbelievingly. Soft jazz is still playing in the background as warm sunlight falls on the back of his head. Dark circles lie under his eyes, and he swallows like his throat is raw from screaming—though he’d clearly tried to choke every sound.

“You look wrecked,” I say. “Did you sleep at all?”

The way he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand makes the question seem uncomfortable. He also looks a bit disoriented, not fully here yet.

He’s staring a hole through my head, but his gaze is somewhere far away in another country.

Poland, maybe?

Through the open doorway, I see Pixie waiting by the apartment door, so I step back from the couch. To my surprise, Aran seems relieved and takes a deep but still shaky breath.

“I have to take Pixie out real quick. You okay?”

“Of course.” His voice doesn’t sound as strong as he probably intended, which he tries to cover with a cough.

I have no idea what’s wrong with me, but it’s hard to leave him like this. I just take Pixie out into the courtyard for a quick bathroom break—she’ll get a proper walk later.

When I come back inside, Aran is standing in front of the coffee machine watching his cup fill. He looks terrible. Or at least worn out enough that I can see the difference from two weeks ago. It’s like he’s getting worse every day. Like a ghost, he picks up the steaming cup and makes room for me.

While he adds a generous spoonful of sugar, I put my cup under the machine and press the button.

“No rehearsal today?”

“No.”

I can’t tell if he’s in a bad mood because of that or glad for a day off.

“Any plans?”

“Hm…” he mutters over his cup and takes a sip. “A bit of studio time.”

For some inexplicable reason, I can’t shake the feeling that the studio isn’t good for him. Yes, jazz was playing earlier, but otherwise, he blasts those disturbing sounds in there the whole time. That can’t be healthy.

“Why don’t you come for a walk with me?”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I curse myself for asking. There are so many reasons why this is a stupid idea. Even Aran knows it, judging by his arrogant snort.

“You’re the one who made such a big deal about not being seen with me. And now you want to go for a walk together?”

I shake my head in disbelief because, as much as it speaks against it, I’m convinced he’ll feel better tonight than if he hides in the studio all day.

“Where we’re going, you definitely won’t be chased by paparazzi. Put on a baseball cap,” I say. “Or I can lend you one of my jackets.”