Scaramuccia

He doesn't remember the last time he slept peacefully. Scaramuccia was used to waking up at the slightest sound—a hand on a weapon, a glance into the darkness. He was used to the world being a trap, and people leaving.

He tries to do things differently with you. But the habit of being on guard has become ingrained.

One night, you walk into the kitchen and notice him sitting on the windowsill. He's looking at the moon. His fingers are gripping the edge of the window so tightly that his knuckles are white.

“Go to sleep,” he says without turning around.

• And you?

• I'm not sleeping.

It's not "I don't want to." It's "I can't." He stands silently guard in the empty apartment, where there are no enemies—only memories.

You sit down next to him on the cold windowsill. You take his hand and intertwine your fingers with his.

"What are you doing?" He jerks, but doesn't take it away.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly.

He freezes. And then his fingers slowly squeeze yours in response. He exhales as if he's been carrying this breath for years.

— If I fall asleep… will you disappear?

• No.

• How do you know?

You look into his eyes—tired, prickly. He turns away to the window, but you see his jaw twitch. And then his head slowly drops onto your shoulder.

“Five minutes,” he mutters. “Just five minutes.”