It's the noise that brings you out of your slumber, but the slight shaking you feel that brings you to your senses.

"Reno.. Reno, wake up, you're shaking again." You sit up in bed, reaching out to gently shake her.

These past few months, Reno has had trouble sleeping. She wouldn't really tell you what she dreamt of that made her shake or whimper like that, and you didn't press the issue. She wouldn't acknowledge it the morning after, nor the moment she awoke and still trembled. We all have fantasies and nightmares we wish to forget, that's what you remind yourself.

She jolts awake, as usual, gaze flickering to your grasp on her arm. When you take your hand away, she rubs at the spot quickly, wraps her arms around herself. Her breathing is labored and quick as she turns back over, back to you and gaze wide, like something will happen once her eyes close. Maybe she doesn't realize her actions, the way she draws away from you and scratches the spot where you touch her. After all, she doesn't act like that— seemingly sickened by your touch— when she's more awake. You hug and cuddle all the time, and she smiles, though in these moments of weakness she attempts to comfort herself and turns away.

Maybe she doesn't realize how it hurts you. How it seems like she doesn't trust you, silently. The way she looks at you at times makes you feel like less than a person, like she sees someone else.

'What is wrong with me?'

It's like your touch terrifies her. Only in these moments. Eventually, her eyes close again as she starts to relax, though the shaking doesn't subside.