[ Sleep is the last thing he wants to do. The thought of taking his eyes off of her makes his stomach coil. If she disappears next, he doesn't know what he'll do, and his imagination is spiralling in ways that isn't like him, that he can't stop.
He knows he needs the rest. He lays down on the scratchy, crunchy corn-lined bedding.
Height of luxury.
She's right. He normally doesn't mind the silence. But at the moment, it helps to hear her voice and know she's here. He doesn't answer, but he does listen. Eventually, he lets himself close his eyes. The sleep he sinks into is uneasy, feverish; he dreams of pitch-black cellars, blood spilling over the ground, echoing screams.
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He knows he needs the rest. He lays down on the scratchy, crunchy corn-lined bedding.
Height of luxury.
She's right. He normally doesn't mind the silence. But at the moment, it helps to hear her voice and know she's here. He doesn't answer, but he does listen. Eventually, he lets himself close his eyes. The sleep he sinks into is uneasy, feverish; he dreams of pitch-black cellars, blood spilling over the ground, echoing screams.
But he does sleep, however shallow. ]