Once his heart and breathing settled again, Hemingway carefully pulled out before resuming his position curled up against her.
He did feel a little bit guilty, although it was outweighed by how much better he felt, and eased greatly by her words. Rather than using words to how his gratitude, he placed a few lazy, soft kisses against her neck. He would have to make it up to her soon.
He didn't know that he wanted to talk, ever, even if keeping it all hidden inside was probably a major contributing factor the the night terrors. With no other outlet, it was hardly surprising it slipped into his dreams. "Memories," he corrected her softly. That made it harder; he couldn't tell himself that it was just a nightmare when it had really happened. Even if it was long over. "Milan," he added after a moment. The door had been a terrible, terrible idea. One of his most idiotic.