Marco had nightmares.

Alyssa first learned that her second night at his place. She'd gotten up to go to the bathroom and heard him calling out words too slurred for her to understand but in a tone so tortured she couldn't miss the feeling behind them. For long minutes, she'd stood in the doorway of the dark dining room, debating whether to wake him. But then he'd settled, and she'd returned to bed.

Every night, it was the same thing. Sometimes it went on longer. Sometimes he shouted out or moaned. The specific notes of his anguish varied, but the basic soundtrack remained the same, like a needle on an old LP stuck in a particularly deep groove.

She wished she could talk to him about it, ask him what was haunting him night after night. But ever since she'd woken up late Sunday afternoon to find the towel beside her-and the house itself-empty, he'd been avoiding her. She was sure of it. He was gone when she got up in the morning and beat her to work every day. He didn't join her and the others in the break room for a bite to eat, and, after making sure she safely got back to his place after work, he often went to the gym, not returning until she'd fallen asleep.

The only thing that kept her going was her memory of the desperate need in his blue eyes while they'd lain side by side under the summer sun.

But how could she be there for someone who insisted on staying away?

Maybe he simply didn't want her to be.

By Wednesday night, her heartache for him blossomed into the determination to simply confront him. She couldn't go about her life acting like everything was okay when her oldest friend and the person who owned the biggest piece of her heart carried torturous pain around inside him.

Of course, she had to wait for him to come home from the gym first. In his bedroom, she changed out of her work clothes and pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of girly striped boxers. Then she planted herself on the futon, eyes on the front door, and waited. As the numbers on the LED screen of her phone passed one a.m., Alyssa struggled to remain awake, and then finally stopped fighting it. She'd hear him come in. Against one armrest, Marco had stacked a pillow on top of the folded blanket he'd been using at night, so she reclined against them and let herself drift off.

Warm arms slipped under her body and for a moment she was weightless.

Forcing her eyelids open, Alyssa looked up at the hard angle of Marco's jaw. "Marco," she whispered, her sleepy voice cracking.

"Shh. Don't wake up," he said in a low voice.

God, his body felt so good against hers. She reached up and cupped her hand around his neck. "Talk to me."

He turned sideways with her as he stepped through the bedroom doorway. Gently, he laid her on his bed.

Before he could pull away, she laced both hands behind his neck. "Please." In the quiet stillness of the dark room, she heard him swallow thickly.

He grabbed one of her hands and pulled it away. "Don't."

She couldn't see the expression he wore, but his tone was crystal clear. Tears flooded her eyes, and she found herself so glad for the dark.

His footsteps padded quietly across the room and the door clicked shut. She was alone.

But that little exchange hammered the nails into the coffin of sleeping for the night. After maybe an hour, she sat up and debated. She pushed out of bed and opened the door. Finding the house dark, she crossed the hallway to the dining room doorway and listened.

It didn't take long to hear what she'd come in there for. The strangled whimpers and half cries echoing from the front room broke her heart.

She tiptoed over to the futon, which was silly, since she was planning to wake him. "Marco?" she whispered. She moved closer. "Marco?"

The diffuse moonlight through the front windows allowed her to make out his position, laying on his back, the covers twisted around his legs. She knelt beside the futon and laid a gentle hand on top of one of his, which strained and fisted into the blanket.

He released an anguished gasp that sent her heart into double time. She inhaled to say his name again just as his fist went slack under her grip. Still unconscious, he angled his head toward her and exhaled a shaky breath.

Minutes later, his breathing evened out into the slow and soft rhythm of normal sleep.

Alyssa burst into tears. She pressed her hand over her mouth to smother the sound and felt her sorrow for him drip over her knuckles. As much as her outburst was borne out of her grief for his pain, it was also the result of a bone-deep relief. Had she finally found a way to help him? Even if he didn't know it-even if he could never know it-she'd watch over him as he slept. If her presence or touch or whatever it was calmed him, she'd give him as much as he needed to protect him from his nightmares.

Her tears dried up, her legs fell asleep, and the moonlight moved across the room and disappeared. Hours later, the blackness turned gray. Time for her to go.

Holding her breath, Alyssa withdrew her hand and unfolded her legs. The pins and needles were terrible, and worse when she moved, but it was worth it. She limped across the room, gritting her teeth the whole way, and finally breathed again when the bedroom door closed behind her.

Tired as she was, she could've tossed her head back and cried out in triumph. Whatever tormented him was more than she could handle alone-she knew enough to know that-but if standing guard against his demons at night allowed him the peace of a decent sleep, she would do it. How many nights had he sat with her until she fell asleep when she was a kid? Brady had, too, of course, but her brother was possibly the most tone-deaf person on the planet, whereas Marco could sing and play the guitar. And many nights he'd sung her to sleep.

His presence and his music had kept her safe all those years ago. Had helped her to forget.

Now she could do the same for him.

She collapsed on the bed, wondering how her day could get any better. But then she remembered it was payday. Finally! She'd saved a couple hundred bucks in the half week she'd been at Marco's, and her check should double that, easily.

Sometime later, the telltale signs of Marco moving around the house sounded out. She left her room and found him in the kitchen wearing only a pair of beat-up jeans that hung low on his hips. His arms were braced on the counter and he was staring at the coffeemaker like he might be able to will it to brew faster.

For a long moment, she drank him in with her gaze. His back was a sculpted canvas of muscle, one she longed to trace with her fingers and tongue. He was so damn gorgeous. Would she ever have the chance to show him just how much she loved him?

She frowned and stepped closer. A round, puckered scar marred the outside of his shoulder. What was that?

He turned toward her and rested his butt against the counter.

"Hey," she said, hoping he hadn't caught her staring. "It's nice to see you this morning."

"Yeah, well. Didn't really feel like running in the rain." He gestured to the window.

Alyssa looked out at the drizzly day, but then quickly refocused her attention on him. Lean and ridged, his abdomen made her want to see if it felt as hard as it looked. A line of dark hair extended from his belly button down into jeans sitting so low there was no way he wore underwear. He might've been an athlete featured in the pages of Sports Illustrated or a designer underwear model, if it weren't for two things: a raised pink scar that ran in a straight line under his left pec and a puckered scar on the front side of his right shoulder that matched the one on his back.

Realization added adrenaline to the lust his body inspired. He'd been shot. She didn't know whether to be angry with him and Brady for never mentioning that little fact or give in to her rising panic at the thought that he'd so often been in harm's way. She knew the kinds of things the Army Special Forces handled. When the guys had finished basic training and headed off to SF qualifications, Alyssa had read everything she could get her hands on. Unconventional warfare, counterterrorism, combat search and rescue, manhunts, behind-enemy-lines reconnaissance-everything guys like Marco and Brady did was top secret and inordinately dangerous. But knowing that and seeing its consequences were two different things.

Brady's crackling voice from Saturday's phone call came to mind. Oh, God, he was still out there. A sudden wave of fear for him almost stole her breath.

Marco rotated his shoulder forward and glanced down at the mark that had captured her notice, then looked back at her. "Coffee?"

She agreed, glad for something normal to think about. He fixed it for her, having learned years before how she liked it, and handed her a mug. "Thanks." She blew into it and took a small drink, watching him over the ceramic rim. "How'd you sleep?"

He swallowed and set his cup on the counter. "Pretty good. You?"

"Fine." She didn't even feel bad about the lie, because the circles under his eyes were the lightest she'd seen since she'd come home to Frederick. An uncomfortable silence stretched out between them. "I'll go jump in the shower now. Unless you want to first?"