They’re the first words to pop into my head when I bolt upright, squinting into the dim light. My heart slams furiously against my chest as I rub my eyes, muscles bunched, searching for the source of the noise. Someone had been gasping. No, crying. Maybe a thief had broken in during the middle of the night—

But the hotel room appears undisturbed. The door is closed, the velvet curtains half-drawn over the city lights outside. The faint blue glow of the alarm clock blinks from the bedside table: 3:42 a.m. I look around more slowly, waiting for my heart to settle down again.

And then I spot Cyrus on the other bed. Only the corner of the blanket is draped over his stomach, his long legs hanging over the side, and his eyes are squeezed tight, as if in pain. A broken, helpless sound escapes his lips.

“No …” he murmurs. “No—please—”

“Cyrus?” I whisper. Wide awake now, I hop off the bed and lower myself down by his side, my mouth dry. He’s lost in whatever nightmare he’s having. A sliver of moonlight creeps in past the curtains, illuminating the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He’s never looked so helpless before, so afraid, not even when he thought the plane was going down. “Cyrus,” I say, louder, touching his shoulder.

He flinches, inhaling sharply like someone breaking through the currents right before they’re about to drown, his eyes wide and disoriented. Then they find my face, and something in him changes. Goes quiet.

“Are you okay?” I ask, flicking on the night-light.

“Yes,” he whispers, pulling himself up against the pillows, his knees drawn to his chest. His hair is all mussed, so long that it falls like black silk over his brows. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s fine,” I say, smoothing out my nightgown. Under normal circumstances, I would be more self-conscious about waking up in the middle of the night with a boy in his hotel room, but there’s something about this moment that’s safe, private—I feel like I could say or do anything right now and he wouldn’t judge me for it. I stand up and grab one of the bottles of water from the table, twisting the cap for him before holding it out. “Here.”

He accepts it gladly, and I watch the movement in his throat as he tips his head back and drinks.

“Do you have them often?” I ask, sitting down on his bed. There’s only just enough room for me to avoid brushing against his legs when I turn around to face him. “The nightmares?”

“More often than I’d prefer,” he says, quiet. His hands tremble faintly as he screws the cap back on. “I’m actually surprised Oliver hasn’t said anything about it. I must have woken him up a bunch of times.”

“I had no idea,” I tell him.