The wave of relief that washed over Ethan was so profound it nearly buckled his knees. A nightmare. It had all been a nightmare, horrifically vivid, gut-wrenchingly real, but ultimately just a cruel phantasm conjured by an overtired mind. Clara was here, humming, smiling, radiating warmth and life, the absolute antithesis of the still, broken form he'd knelt beside on the cold asphalt in his dream.
He stumbled forward, crossing the threshold into the kitchen, and practically enveloped her in a hug, burying his face in her familiar sweatshirt, clinging to her as if afraid she might evaporate. He felt her momentary surprise, then the comforting pressure of her arms wrapping around him.
"Whoa," she mumbled into his shoulder, her voice muffled. "Good morning to you too. Rough night?"
"You have no idea," Ethan choked out, his voice thick with emotion. He held her tighter for a moment longer, assuring himself of her solid presence, the steady beat of her heart against his chest, before finally pulling back, though he kept his hands firmly on her shoulders, his eyes scanning her face desperately. "Just… a really bad dream."
Clara searched his face, her initial amusement giving way to concern. "You look awful, Ethan. Pale as a ghost. Was it about the wedding? Client stress?"
He shook his head quickly, forcing a shaky smile. "No, nothing like that. Just… one of those falling dreams, you know? But worse." He couldn't bring himself to describe the specifics, the visceral horror of the hit-and-run, the blood, the flashing lights. Voicing it felt like tempting fate, giving the nightmare power he desperately wanted to deny. It was over. It wasn't real. She was here. That was all that mattered.
"Okay," she said slowly, still looking concerned but seeming to accept his vague explanation. "Well, you're safe now. And coffee is almost ready." She gently extricated herself from his grip, turning back to the ceramic dripper. "Maybe a quiet day is in order?"
"Yes," Ethan agreed instantly, latching onto the idea. "Yes, definitely. You know what? Let's stay home today."
Clara paused mid-pour, glancing back at him in surprise. "Stay home? But we both have work. Thompson? Finch?"
"We can call in sick," Ethan insisted, the idea solidifying rapidly in his mind. The thought of either of them leaving the apartment, venturing back out into the city where that horrific dream had unfolded… it sent a fresh jolt of anxiety through him. He knew it was irrational – it was just a dream – but the residual fear was potent, visceral. "Seriously, Clara. After that nightmare… I just feel really off. Shaky. And you said Finch was driving you crazy yesterday. Let's just… take a day. For us. Recharge." He tried to inject a casual, spontaneous note into his voice, but he suspected it sounded more like pleading.
She studied him for a long moment, her brow furrowed slightly. He could see the practicality warring with concern in her expression. Finally, she sighed softly. "Okay, Ethan. Okay. If you really feel that off… we'll stay home. I guess I can deal with Finch's emails remotely if I have to. And you can grovel to Thompson tomorrow." A small smile touched her lips. "One 'mental health day' coming right up."
Relief flooded Ethan again, so strong it was almost dizzying. "Thank you," he said, managing a more genuine smile this time. "I just… need a quiet day. Safe inside."
Safe inside. The words echoed in his mind. Keep her safe inside. Away from traffic, away from crosswalks, away from the myriad dangers lurking in the city depicted so brutally in his nightmare. Here, within their own walls, he could protect her. He could control the environment.
Clara made the necessary calls, her voice smooth and professional as she informed her office she was unwell, assuring them she'd monitor urgent emails. Ethan called his own office, fabricating a vague story about a sudden stomach bug, enduring Howard's skeptical grunt before hanging up with a sigh of relief.
The day unfolded with a strange, muted quality. Ethan couldn't shake the persistent hum of anxiety vibrating just beneath his skin. While Clara seemed content to embrace the unexpected day off, curling up on the sofa with her laptop, occasionally tackling Finch's demands between chapters of a novel she was reading, Ethan found himself restless, hyper-alert.
He checked the locks on the front door multiple times, peering through the peephole at innocuous sounds in the hallway. He double-checked that the stove burners were off, even though they hadn't used them since breakfast. He scanned the food in the fridge, suddenly suspicious of expiration dates he'd never glanced at before, irrationally worried about hidden dangers like botulism or contamination. When Clara started preparing lunch – simple sandwiches – he hovered nearby, watching her every move, taking over the knife duties himself to slice the tomatoes, his grip overly tight on the handle.
"Ethan, relax," she said gently, bumping his hip with hers as she reached for the lettuce. "You're acting like this sandwich might spontaneously combust. It's just turkey and swiss."
He forced a laugh. "Sorry. Still feeling jittery, I guess." He made an effort to act more normal, retreating to the living room while she finished making lunch, but he couldn't settle. He found himself pacing, glancing compulsively at the clock, his mind replaying fragments of the nightmare despite his best efforts to suppress them. The dark sedan. The awful thud. The flashing lights.
He shook his head, trying to dispel the images. It was a dream. A manifestation of stress. The timing, 5:17, was just a random detail his subconscious had latched onto. It meant nothing.
They ate lunch together, mostly in silence. Clara seemed aware of his underlying tension, occasionally reaching across the table to squeeze his hand reassuringly, her eyes full of gentle concern. He tried to engage, asking about her book, discussing vague plans for the weekend, but his attention kept drifting, his senses straining for any hint of danger within the supposedly safe confines of their home. A floorboard creaking upstairs. A siren wailing in the far distance. The hum of the refrigerator. Each sound felt momentarily magnified, potentially sinister.
The afternoon crawled by. Ethan tried to read, but the words blurred on the page. He tried watching a movie with Clara, but couldn't follow the plot, his focus snagged by every shadow, every sudden noise in the film's soundtrack.
Clara eventually drifted off for a nap on the sofa, curled beneath the throw blanket, looking peaceful and utterly vulnerable. Ethan watched her sleep, his heart aching with a fierce, desperate protectiveness fueled by the nightmare's lingering horror. He wouldn't let anything happen to her. Not today. Not ever again, even in dreams.
He rose silently and did another circuit of the apartment. Checked the windows – locked. Sniffed the air near the gas stove – nothing. Checked the circuit breaker box in the hallway closet, looking for… he didn't even know what. Overloaded circuits? Frayed wires? Everything looked normal, mundane. He felt foolish, paranoid, yet compelled to continue his vigilance.
As late afternoon settled in, casting long shadows across the living room floor, the ambient anxiety Ethan had carried all day began to sharpen, twisting into a cold knot in his stomach. He couldn't shake a profound sense of unease, a feeling that despite the locked doors and quiet rooms, something was fundamentally wrong. He found himself pacing again, the memory of the horrific crash in his nightmare replaying unwantedly behind his eyes. He forced it back down. It was a dream. She was here. She was safe.
Clara stirred on the sofa, blinking sleepily as the light shifted. "Mmm, what time is it getting to be?" she mumbled, stifling a yawn.
"Late afternoon," Ethan answered vaguely, his voice tight. "Getting dark soon."
"Wow, I slept for ages," she murmured, stretching languidly. "Still feeling tired, though. Maybe I really am coming down with something." She sat up, rubbing her eyes. "I could really use a pick-me-up. Want some tea? I think we still have some of that fancy herbal stuff my mom sent."
"Sure," Ethan agreed quickly. Tea felt safe. Mundane. A small anchor of normalcy in his increasingly turbulent emotional state. Maybe the simple ritual would help dispel the irrational dread coiling inside him. "I'll put the kettle on."
He went into the kitchen, filling the electric kettle with water, his hands betraying a slight tremor he hoped she wouldn't notice. Clara followed him, stretching again as she entered the familiar space. She opened the cupboard where they kept the teas, her fingers sorting through the various colourful boxes.
"Aha," she announced, pulling out a floral-patterned box. "Passionflower and Chamomile blend. Supposed to be calming." She smiled at him briefly before opening the box and retrieving two individually sealed tea bags. Turning towards the counter where their mugs sat, she tore open the paper envelope around one of the tea bags.
It happened with shocking, impossible suddenness.
As Clara brought the tea bag towards a mug, her breath caught in a sharp, audible gasp. Her eyes widened in confusion, then rapidly filled with stark terror. She dropped the tea bag, her hand flying instinctively to clutch at her throat.
"Clara?" Ethan barked, confusion warring with a sudden, sickening spike of fear. "What's wrong?"
She couldn't speak. Her face flushed a deep, alarming red, then rapidly began to take on a frightening purplish hue. She made frantic, gagging sounds, her breath whistling desperately in her throat as she clawed at her neck, her eyes bulging with panic.
"Clara!" Ethan lunged towards her, his mind scrambling. Choking? But she hadn't eaten anything. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, pulling her back against him, delivering several sharp upward thrusts for the Heimlich maneuver, though instinct screamed it was wrong. It wasn't an obstruction. Her airway felt like it was swelling shut from the inside.
An allergic reaction? His brain flashed the thought even as he continued the useless maneuver. To what? The tea? Dust? Something unseen floating in the air of their 'safe' apartment? Why? Why now?
Her body sagged heavily against him, her struggles becoming weaker, terrifyingly uncoordinated. He eased her down onto the cool tiles of the kitchen floor, panic constricting his own chest. "Stay with me, Clara, stay with me!"
He tilted her head back, frantically checking her mouth and throat for blockage – finding nothing. He immediately started CPR, forcing himself into the rhythm learned years ago but never imagined using for real, let alone on her. Tilt head, pinch nose, breathe. Interlock hands, push hard on her sternum. One, two, three, four…
He shouted her name between breaths, yelling pointlessly into the silent apartment. He spotted his phone on the counter, snagged it with one hand while keeping the compressions going, managing to dial 911 through sheer adrenaline, gasping out their address and "Severe reaction! Difficulty breathing!" before dropping the phone nearby to focus entirely on Clara.
Pump. Breathe. Pump. Breathe. The horrifying reality crashed down on him. She wasn't responding. Her skin felt clammy, her lips disturbingly blue. The stillness beneath his hands was profound, absolute. He kept going, driven by frantic denial, by the sheer refusal to accept what was happening. The electric kettle clicked off unnoticed, its small signal lost in the larger horror.
How long did he work? Until his arms burned with exhaustion? Until his throat was raw from shouting her name? Until the sheer, awful weight of failure pressed down on him? He didn't know. He only knew that at some point, his frantic movements slowed, then stopped. He knelt beside her, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes, staring down at her utterly still face.
It hadn't worked. Despite being here, inside, away from the imagined dangers of the outside world, away from the chaotic violence of his nightmare… she was still gone. The carefully constructed safety of their home had proved utterly meaningless against whatever unseen force had just stolen her from him.
He stared at her, then around the quiet, familiar kitchen – the cat mug by the sink, the neatly arranged spice rack, the sunlight slanting through the window, indifferent. It looked exactly as it should, yet everything was irrevocably wrong.
The nightmare. The hit-and-run. The flashing lights. It felt just as real as this moment, kneeling here on the cold floor beside her body. That desperate feeling of loss, that same gut-wrenching finality… it was identical. How could a dream mimic reality with such cruel precision? Or…
A terrifying thought, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of his grief. What if yesterday – the traffic, the speeding car, the scene on the asphalt – hadn't been a dream at all? What if it had happened? And somehow, impossibly, he was here, now, reliving the loss, just… differently?
The idea warred against every rational instinct. Time travel? Resets? It was the stuff of science fiction, of madness. Yet… the feeling of recurrence, the echo of yesterday's trauma overlaid onto today's fresh horror, was undeniable, chilling.
He looked down at Clara again, the impossibility of her sudden death hitting him anew. Inside their locked apartment. From a cup of tea she'd likely had before. It made no sense. Unless sense wasn't part of the equation.
He slumped forward, resting his forehead against the cool floor beside her, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a despair colder and deeper than anything he'd known before. The first time, the nightmare time, had been horrifying. This felt infinitely worse. This felt like a trap. A pattern. And the terrifying implication began to take root in the wreckage of his mind: if this day could happen twice, could it happen again?