Edward
Connor was still shaking, even in his sleep.
I was on my side, propped up on one elbow, just looking at him. The throw blanket we'd dragged onto ourselves was tangled around his waist, his inside-out shirt still twisted. My hand was brushing, slow, over his dark hair, pushing it back from his forehead and then letting it fall again.
His face was tense. Even now. His eyebrows pulled together, his jaw clenched tight enough that I could see the muscle jumping. His lips were pressed in a thin line like he was arguing with someone in his dream.
And my heart sank. More and more with every minute I looked.
It had been a long time since Connor had looked like this. Two years ago, maybe more, even in his sleep he looked angry. Like someone who was always arguing, always fighting, in deep conflict with the whole world and himself most of all. It took Connor two seconds to get angry and an entire century to get calm. That was just how he was wired. Quick fuse, slow burn out.
