Riza shifts, her hand reaching weakly for his on the mattress until she finds it again, and when she does she grips it tightly. It's one of the most physical things she's done and certainly that she's initiated herself as opposed to simply tolerated. "It's all right. I don't need anything. I'm--" Her voice cracks, before she can finish. "I don't want to be alone. That's all."

She nearly blurts to him that these are the nights she'd ordinarily leave her small apartment, head for the bar many veterans frequented, but catches herself before and wonders how much longer she can keep this up. He's been more than kind, and all she has done is keep secrets. Riza presses herself into the space he'd left for her, her hand still wrapped tightly around his and face obscured beneath sleep-tousled hair.

"Roland." Catching her like this, so fully in a nightmare, is akin to seeing her skill with a rifle or her service record. How can she keep her history a secret when she doesn't even know what she'd said? Her husband has just had the grace thus far not to ask. "I haven't been entirely honest with you."