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It had become regular for Andrew to use your devices. He knew your passwords, having been the one to insist you set them in the first place, giving you a well-meaning scolding for not taking your security seriously enough, and sometimes it was just convenient for him to use your things instead of his own. In between burner phones he could use yours to communicate with his brothers, and it wasn’t unusual for him to grab your phone from the counter while you cooked to look up something to settle one of the many small arguments you had. He was always smug when he was right, leaning back against the counter next to where you stood at the stove, holding the screen in front of you so you could read while he fixed you with a pointed look. He would huff lightly when you gave him a sweet smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he muttered something about it not changing anything, and you still being wrong.
Using your tablet had been a more recent development. Andrew was shy to use your things, that timidness and sense of obtruding never fully leaving him the way you hoped it would after so long together. It started one night when you were watching tv, splayed out on the sofa while Andrew showered. You had chosen one of your favorite sitcoms, choosing an episode at random and letting it play while you buried your head into one of the throw pillows, listening to the show more than watching. It was comforting, hitting the familiar beats you knew so well after rewatching it so many times without taking any more of your mental energy. It gave just enough noise to fill the quiet, not overwhelming you, but giving you something to laugh about when you did bother to pay attention.
You lifted your head from the pillow when you heard Andrew’s footsteps, leaving a crater in the soft fabric that you would be sure to return to.
“Whatcha watching?” He didn’t look at you, level eyes fixed on the tv as a laugh track played. His stoic expression and dark shirt and sweatpants, the collar pitched even darker as drops of water fell from his damp curls, made him stand out even more harshly against the overly animated characters on screen.
You sat up slightly, making room for him on the couch beside you as he came closer.
“An old sitcom. Probably not something you’d like.”
He lowered himself down next to you, sitting as far back as the cushions would allow, until his straight spine pressed against the backing. He didn’t say anything when you shifted closer, hugging his arm to your chest and resting your head on his shoulder. You could hear the quiet drips of the water as they landed on his clothed back.
“I can change it if you want,” you offered, glancing up at him as much as the angle allowed.
Andrew frowned. He was thinking, eyes still glued to the tv, as if trying to puzzle out what made it so appealing. After a moment, he shook his head, head dipping to glance down at you.
“No,” he said simply. “You like it.”
A small smile pulled at your lips. “Well, yeah,” you agreed. “But that doesn’t mean you have to.” He only looked at you with those big brown eyes you’d come to love, his jaw flexing as he thought.
“You know, there’s another option,” you offered, reluctantly sitting up and releasing his arm, your heart warming at the small frown that tugged at his lips at your absence. “I could watch this, and you could watch something you like, like a documentary. I saw one on Netflix the other day I don’t think you’ve seen yet,” you tempted. “It’s all about squids and the way they think, and how they can get out of all kinds of situations. I added it to my list so I wouldn’t forget to show you.”
Andrew frowned, but you could see the way his eyes widened ever so slightly. He was interested.
“There’s only one screen,” he said, confusion drawing his voice out lower. He gestured to the tv, as if you had forgotten the set up of your own living room. You had to bite back a smile, knowing there was another tv in the bedroom, but that he didn’t even consider it an option without you by his side.
“You’re right,” you conceded, standing up to walk behind the couch, crossing the room to where your bag hung from a hook in the hallway. “And yet you’re also wrong.” You pulled your tablet out of your bag, unzipping a smaller pocket and feeling around blindly until your hand closed on the small case that held your wireless earbuds. You held it in a closed fist as you walked back to the living room.
You held the tablet out triumphantly to show Andrew when you plopped back down next to him on the couch, leaning against his chest as you beamed up at him.
“Behold,” you announced, “another screen. And-” you opened your closed hand, showing him the small bag you’d brought him. “Look at that, fresh ear pieces, just for you!” You were unable to stop the proud grin that took over your face. “Entirely unused, and kept in protective packaging. Ergo, or should I say ear-go, ha,” he rolled his eyes at your bad joke, not even trying to hide his small smile, “no germs!”
His brows furrowed as he looked down at the little baggie of ear pieces, turning them over in his broad hands like he expected them to disappear.
“Why do you have these?” he asked.
You shrugged, leaning forward to press a kiss to his shoulder before resting your cheek on it.
“For you. Figured you might want to use my earbuds someday, and I don’t want you stressing out about germs when you’re here. Not when I can help.”
He swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. His hand closed around the little baggie, his other dragging up your thigh where it rested halfway on his lap, giving it an appreciative squeeze.
“Thank you,” he said, quiet and low, the words wavering slightly.
His breathing stuttered a bit more when your hands found the nape of his neck, nails dragging soothingly through the wet curls.
“Of course. Anything for you, Andy.”
All of that led you to today. Andrew was having trouble sleeping. Story of his life. Usually, it was easier when he slept over, finding the warmth of you pressed against him and the weight of your body enough to ground him in reality and push away the thoughts that plagued him both in sleep and wakefulness. But tonight, not even that was enough. He might have left the bedroom to pace or settle in front of the tv and listen to the calm drone of a nature documentary had you not looked so peaceful beside him, stretched out further onto his side of the bed than usual in your search for him. He couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving.
He was relieved when an idea clicked in his head.
He peeled back the covers as smoothly as he could, careful not to expose your sleeping form to cool night air. He moved quietly out of the bedroom and down the hall to where you kept your bag, removing your tablet and earbuds, making sure to also grab the small canvas pouch with an embellished A embroidered on it that you’d made once he’d started using your earbuds more regularly. He’d thought it was ridiculous that you carried an extra little pouch in your bag just so he could steal your earbuds, but he would never complain, especially after he saw how happy it made you. He crept back to bed and slipped in beside you, making sure to tip the screen of the tablet away from you as he opened its case.
The screen leaped to life, and he blinked rapidly at the sudden brightness, wishing he could curse without risking waking you. He repeated the action you’d shown him once when he was frustrated that he couldn’t see things well on the screen, successfully lowering the brightness to a more reasonable level before moving to unlock it. He felt satisfied with himself for thinking of such a plan, and knew you’d love finding out that he turned to you, even by extension of your belongings, to find comfort in the night. After he’d entered your passcode, the screen unlocked to a webpage.
The air stilled in his lungs when he skimmed the text scrawled across the screen.
You may be hurt by your loved one’s distance and moodiness or struggling to understand their behavior—why they are less affectionate and more volatile. You may feel like you’re walking on eggshells or living with a stranger.
He blinked, hard, and read it again. When the letters didn’t rearrange themselves into something more palatable he brought his finger to the screen, scrolling to the top of the page as quickly as the device would allow.
How to Help Someone with PTSD
His heart dropped. An article. One from a medical journal no less.
His eyes slid over to where you slept, one of your hands now tangled in the fabric of his pillow case. You’d picked out these bedsheets together, insistent that you wanted something that felt good for him too, even if he didn’t officially live with you.
Your comfort is still important too, you’d teased him, tossing a fabric sample at him in the middle of the department store.
How long had this been going on? How long had you been researching, dissecting him without him knowing? His hands clenched, and he was aware that he was sitting much straighter now, any drowsiness he had once clung to long gone from his tired body.
You knew something was wrong as soon as you’d woken up. Your hand had stretched out before your eyes had even opened, unconsciously searching for Andrew. Only when your hand found cool linen in his place did you peel your eyes open, squinting in the morning light coming through your sheer curtains. Andrew was right. Blackout would have been the more practical choice, but you loved the morning light when it shone in, catching the red undertones of Andrew’s hair as it darkened with age.
You looked around, half expecting to see him in the adjoined bathroom, already brushing his teeth, or getting dressed to go meet his family. It wasn’t uncommon for him to have to leave early in the morning, and you tried not to take it personally, but something felt off. His spot in bed was cold, the covers thrown off instead of neatly pulled back up like he’d tried to make the bed as well as he could without waking you.
“Andy?” you called hoarsely, suddenly feeling a bit worried.
“I’m here.” His voice carried through the cracked bedroom door. “I’m in the kitchen. Didn’t want to wake you.”
He didn’t turn to face you when you padded out to join him. Normally he would at least glance over at you, his usually carefully guarded mask slipping for just a moment at the sight of you in your pajamas, still rubbing sleep from your eyes as you wrapped your arms around him, letting his nose dip into your hair as you nuzzled against his chest.
This morning was none of that. He faced the wall, waiting for the toaster to go off, not even glancing over his shoulder at you. He was more rigid than usual, the muscles in his broad shoulders tense and his arms crossed over his chest, scowling down at the poor toaster as if it was its fault his life had gone this way.
You didn’t know what had changed since last night, but you didn’t want to push your luck first thing in the morning. The last thing he needed was to clam up and storm out, clamping the lid down on his feelings like he used to do when he first realized you noticed more than you let on.
“Good morning, handsome.” You walked closer, waiting until he hummed his acknowledgement before sliding up next to him. You’d learned a long time ago it was wisest to let him see you before touching him, especially when he was this deep in his head. His eyes flashed with something unreadable when your hand came to rest on his shoulder, his muscles trembling as if they didn’t know whether to relax or run under the warmth of your palm.
“What’s wrong, Andy?” You keep your voice soft, concern showing plainly on your face as you peer up at him. “You’re looking at the toaster like it owes you money. What happened?”
His jaw works, and his grip on the edge of the counter tightens, fingers flexing impatiently as he thinks.
“I found your tablet,” he mutters after a few seconds. His eyes are still locked down, smoldering so hot they might cook his bread faster than the machine could. Your head tips to the side in confusion, and only then does he look at you.
“How to help someone with PTSD?” He says it like a threat, anger and disbelief bleeding through his words as he looms over you. “How long? How long have you been reading that shit, researching me like I’m some wild animal you don’t know how to be around?” His voice cracks at the end, and he turns, teary eyes fixed back on the counter, fighting to maintain even an ounce of composure.
It clicks then, what he’s talking about. You’d been doing some reading, noticing that he seemed to fall asleep easier when there was white noise playing in the background. A friend had casually mentioned that it helped her after she’d survived a violent ordeal, something about the one noise being easier to focus on than all the little noises that she was always worrying might be signs of danger. You’d used it as a jumping off point, seeing if there was anything else small that might help the man you loved so you could keep it on hand and accessible to him. God knew he had a hard enough time asking for things that he wanted, and even then, half the time he didn’t know what he wanted.
You scolded yourself for being so careless. You knew Andrew had blanket permission to use your things, and you’d even encouraged it, finding it comforting to see him do something as domestic as using your phone to look up something.
“Honey, I can explain-” you began, before being cut off.
“Are you scared of me?” His voice broke, and he couldn’t meet your eye. “Is that why you were looking at those things? Trying to find ways to calm me down, to make me less crazy?”
Memories flashed before your eyes. Conversations you’d had, slowly revealing some of what his home life had been like before his mother died. Crushed pills hidden in his food, his brothers telling him to knock it off and be less intense, that he scared everyone away.
“No, of course I’m not!” you insisted. “I love you, I could never be scared of you.”
He scoffed at that, eyes smoldering as he shook his head. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be.” He swallowed painfully, the first of his tears following as his anger subsided. “And clearly you are or you wouldn’t be looking at those things. You’re scared, and you want out. You don’t want this,” he gestured towards himself, the anger in his voice breaking your heart in two. “It’s too much, I’m too much, and you needed a reason to leave.”
You were shocked enough to struggle to find words. Andrew had had his bad days, where he went right back to the dark place that he had spent so much of his life in, but he had been doing better. Slowly, he had learned to trust you. He’d had his backslides, like early in your relationship when you were sick with the flu and hadn’t responded to his messages for a day and a half and he’d assumed you were either in danger or wanting nothing to do with him. It had been a long time since his insecurities had flared up so fiercely though, and you were worried.
“What? No, that’s-that’s not what I was doing,” you protested, but it was too late. He was already gone, pulled under the tidal wave of guilt and self-hatred that lingered within him, slowly festering under the surface until it reared its ugly head again. Of course you had to read up about him like he was some case study. Of course you didn’t know how to act around him. He was a weirdo, just like everybody said, how they’d always said, ever since he was little.
“Andrew, I promise that’s not what that was.” You pleaded with him, desperate for him to look at you, to do anything but glare down at the counter as his shoulders slowly caved in on themselves, his chest heaving as his breaths came faster. “Darling, I-I just didn’t want to make anything worse for you. I was just fact checking myself, and then I got interested in what I was reading, and I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help you, or anything that I was doing wrong.”
When Andrew spoke, his voice came out barely above a whisper, and the crack in his voice made your chest clench painfully.
“You wanted to fix me.”
“No.” You said it firmly, heart aching again when he lifted his head to look at you. His brow was furrowed, beautiful hazel eyes red as tears trickled down his cheeks. You bit down on your tongue not to let out a whimper at the sight. It took so much for him to crumble, years and years of walls he’d built up to protect himself all coming down around him in an instant.
“Andy, I don’t want to fix you,” you said, speaking as firmly as you could. You cupped his cheek with one hand, your thumb wiping away tears and your heart shattering even more at how he leaned into your hand, one of his own coming up to hold your wrist, as if he was scared you might disappear. “I don’t want to fix you because you’re not broken. You’re beautiful and wonderful and amazing, and yes, you have your troubles and things from your past you still struggle with, but who doesn’t? You went through hell, actually you grew up in it, but you came out the other end still caring and funny and good. You’re not broken because of what happened to you. You’re just hurt, and I’m so so sorry you’re hurting. That’s why I was looking at those things.” You sigh, so annoyed at yourself for causing this situation. You knew how he felt about therapy, how his hackles went up at the mere mention of it. Why wouldn’t they? Every time he’d ever spoken to someone about his mental health, they’d made him feel like a freak, or taken him away from the only home he’d ever known.
“You don’t think I’m broken?” His weak voice shook, but his chest wasn’t heaving anymore and his tears had slowed to a trickle. “Even after everything that I’ve done?” His face fell, brow furrowing as he forced his words out. “All the people I’ve hurt. Some of them were innocent.”
You cut him off before he could continue down the slippery path back to the depths of shame that still lived in his mind.
“You don’t do those things anymore,” you reminded him, keeping your voice gentle but firm. You trailed the fingers of your free hand through his hair, letting your nail gently drag down his scalp the way he once quietly admitted he found soothing. He needed to focus on where he was and ground himself in reality before the voices in his head swallowed him whole.
“You don’t hurt people anymore, love. You left that behind and you’ve been good, so so good. You help people now. You provide a place for kids to go with your skate park. You bring them food and look out for them even though no one asked you to. You help me in a million ways, and you’re always there for your brothers, even when they’re being idiots and causing their own problems.”
He exhaled at that, not quite a laugh, but close enough to make you smile.
“You mean Craig,” he said roughly.
Your smile widened. “I mean all of them,” you teased, “but Craig is certainly top of the list.” You wiped away the last of the tears from his face before slowly letting your hands slide down his chest and around his waist, pulling him in for a strong hug. His head dropped to your shoulder, his wet face buried into your neck.
“I’m sorry the world made you feel broken,” you murmured against his shoulder, rubbing his back. You weren’t sure he could even hear you at first, but the warm breath fanning against your shoulder hitched and you knew he did. “And I’m sorry for letting you think even for a moment that you were anything other than the best man I know. I just wanted to make sure I was helping you as much as I could. I don’t want to let you down.”
Andrew’s grip around your shoulders tightened for a moment before loosening as he stood back up to his full height.
“You don’t.”
His words were simple, but the weight of them weren’t lost on you. How could they be when he looked at you like that, all softness and warmth. That kind of vulnerability didn’t come easily to him, and you would be damned if you didn’t treasure it every time he pulled back his armor to let you see him.
He pulled you back to him without another word, pressing a slow kiss to your temple before tucking you back under his chin, just needing to hold you and know that this wasn’t what his mind had made it out to be. You weren’t going anywhere, not without him. And just in case he needed to hear it, you said it aloud.
“I love you, Andrew.” You could say it a hundred times a day and mean it fully. “And I always will. Because you’re the best part of me. You’re my whole heart.”
You could hear his sharp intake of breath, feel his chest press even more firmly against you as it rose with a slight tremor. It never failed to make him emotional to hear you say those words.
His hand combed through your hair, his thumb sweeping gently over your cheek.
“I love you too.”
You both jolted as the toaster popped. You laughed when you realized what had happened, but Andrew only scowled at the machine over your head.
“Guess it had enough of our theatrics,” you joked.
“It’s burned.”
You shrugged, starting to pull away. “I’ll make you more.” His grip on you tightened, pulling you securely back against his chest.
“No. You’re staying here. And I’m buying you a new toaster. This one’s a fire hazard.”
You only nuzzled closer to him. “Whatever makes you comfortable,” you murmured, glad to be back in his warm arms again.