The curtains were open, the moon casting the room in a half light, and she could see Henry on the bed tossing and turning. Not like she had done, but as if he were fighting for his life.

Knowing better than to yank him out of the dream, she closed the distance between her and the bed, gently calling to him to try and bring him out of the nightmare.

‘Henry? Henry, it’s OK. It’s just a dream.’

He thrashed again, his arm flinging out and, having dodged it, she reached for it, wrapping her small hand around his forearm.

‘Henry?’

He stilled in an instant, his eyes open and staring at the ceiling for a second before focusing on her. He sat bolt up in the bed, grabbing on to her hand.

‘Are you OK?’ he demanded.

‘Yes.’ She nodded, momentarily confused by the intensity of his demand, by the fact that his first thought had been her, not himself. ‘I’m fine. Are you?’

He took in a deep breath, and looked about him as if finally taking in his surroundings and realizing where he was.

He nodded slowly and passed a hand over his jaw, working it as if he’d been clenching it the entire time. Leaning up in the bed, she could see that he wasn’t wearing a T-shirt. She looked at where his hand was still on her arm, along the tanned skin of his forearm, up to the powerful outline of well-honed muscles on his biceps, across his collar bone to the dusting of dark hair across a chest that made her mouth water and her guilt rise. She shouldn’t be checking him out. Not right now. Here he was in pain, and she was … on fire. Then his gaze returned to hers, intent and devastating.

She suddenly felt self-conscious. She’d gone to sleep in just the T-shirt and hadn’t thought to put anything else on, she’d been so worried about him. Now she pulled at the length of the T-shirt that reached her mid-thigh, completely unaware that the neckline then pulled low exposing the delicate v between her breasts.

‘Nightmare?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. I get them when it rains like this. It reminds me …’

‘Of the accident? I had them for a few years after too,’ she confessed.

‘Really?’

‘Mm hm,’ she said, rubbing her arms, and for the first time Henry could see the faint silvery traces of scars. Frowning, he took hold of her arms and ran his fingers over them, only belatedly questioning whether his touch would be welcome. Seeing the marks on her arms hurt. He’d managed to escape the accident almost untouched. Physically at least. He turned her hands in his, exposing the soft undersides of her forearms and noticing a red burn slashed just above her wrist.