Paige didn’t want to talk about the room with the drawings she did in her sleep. Didn’t even want to open the door to it. She didn’t know who those girls that she drew were or when they would tragically die. She didn’t even know if they were real people. Maybe they were figments of her traumatized mind.

But most of all she didn’t want to try to explain it to Brett. He’d done the best he could just getting past the “I see auras and black scares me” conversation. She didn’t want to talk to him about dead girls.

She wanted to make love with him.

Paige would’ve thought she’d be afraid. Nervous. Something. But she wasn’t. Looking at Brett as he walked towards her down the hall —a deliberate lack of suspicion about the unopened door in his eye— all she could feel was the heat pooling in her.

“Paige.” Chivalry floated off the word. He stopped his forward progress.

He was concerned about her. Going to try to stop this before it even got started.

She felt a deep, feminine bravery come over her. Whatever battle with himself Brett was envisioning? He’d already lost it.

She took a step closer to him and hooked the crook of her finger into his shirt between the second and third button. She pulled him closer.

“Brett.” She mimicked his same tone, but smiled instead of frowned.

“You’ve had a pretty traumatic day today.”

“Yes, scary teenagers everywhere.”

“You hurt your elbow.”

She stretched out her other arm to show its functionality and pulled him closer with her finger. “I think I’m going to make it.”

“This,” he sighed and referenced between them and her bedroom with his hand, “Is a big deal. For me, but for you especially. I think we should take it slow. That you should make sure this is what you really want.”

She let go of his shirt. She wasn’t prone to anger, but felt it coursing through her now. Not at him, at life in general. She was tired of being fragile, of being the one everyone always worried about. She’d been that way her whole life, even before the attack.

The quiet one. The one that needed protection. The scared one.

But damn it, not tonight.

She pushed Brett back against the door frame with a little more force than either of them were expecting. She poked her finger into his chest.

“I’m not scared. And I’m not making some knee-jerk decision based on what happened today. I want you and unless I’ve misread everything and you don’t want me too, then just shut up and kiss me.”

She grabbed both sides of the collar of his shirt and pulled him down to her. And although he kissed her back, it wasn’t like before in the kitchen. Didn’t have the same passion.

Something inside her died a little.

Oh God, maybe she had misread him. Maybe he’d just been friendly, not truly interested in her romantically. The bravery coursing through her veins a moment ago fled.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured pulling back from his mouth, stepping away. “I shouldn’t have done that. You don’t want this. I’m sorry.” She couldn’t bear to look at him.

Then the world seemed to spin around her as Brett propelled her through the door. Paige found herself lifted and pinned up against the wall, his hands on her hips.

His hard body met hers in all the places she’d been mentally screaming for his touch.

“Don’t want you?” There was something desperate in his lips as they raked over her throat. Paige heard herself moan, but couldn’t seem to stop it. “There are a lot of things going on in my head, but not wanting you is not even in the realm of possibility.”

His lips met hers and this time the kiss was what she had been wanting. It wasn’t a gentle, searching kiss. It was hot. Demanding.

The colors were back where their bodies touched. Paige struggled to get closer, clutching Brett’s shoulders. He pushed her harder against the wall, hitching her legs over his hips. Paige gasped into his mouth, colors blurring all around her.

They had too many clothes on, but Brett made quick work of those, stopping their kisses only to pull her sweater over her head. He released her legs to unfasten her jeans and she shimmied them down her hips as he removed the rest of his clothes and put on protection.

Immediately he was back against her body at the wall. She gasped at the cold hardness against her back, so opposite to the hot hardness against her front.

Brett looked at her more carefully. “Elbow?”

“No,” she shook her head, drawing his lips back to hers. “Cold wall.”

Brett laughed. “Should we take this to the bed?”

“No,” she cupped his face with both hands. “I want you right here. Hard and hot.”

This time when he grasped her legs and hooked them over his hips there was nothing between them.

“I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

Then Paige just held on as Brett pushed forward and the world exploded in colors around her.

* * *

Brett threw an arm over his head against the headboard and looked down at the small woman lying curled, sleeping against his side. He hadn’t had any real forethought of what their lovemaking might be like, but if he had, the words raw, hot and demanding wouldn’t have been the ones he would have used.

But that was exactly what their lovemaking had been.

And Paige had given every bit as much as she’d gotten. He grinned and his breath whistled through his teeth as he thought of it. She had categorically refused to be treated as breakable. As fragile. Good for her.

And hell, definitely good for him.

He was glad she was sleeping now. After they’d showered, together, which had led to even more lovemaking, he’d helped her slip on some extra-large t-shirt —the Oregon Ducks again— and she’d promptly fallen into an exhausted sleep.

Despite what she’d said, it had been a stressful day for her. Even good stresses like the two of them being together, were still stresses. Took a toll on the body and mind. She needed rest.

Tomorrow he needed to get back to the station and finish the work he wasn’t able to complete today because of the time he spent with Paige, even though it would be a Sunday. If there really was a serial killer on the loose then Brett wanted to prove it as soon as possible. So they could catch the bastard. But for right now a little bit of sleep.

Brett woke up to Paige sliding away from him in the bed. It was still dark outside. He looked over at the clock and saw it wasn’t quite four o’clock. He pulled her back to tuck in next to him, but a few moments later she was scooting away again.

“You okay?” he murmured. Maybe she had to go to the bathroom or something.

Paige didn’t respond and he figured she had gone back to sleep when all of a sudden she sat up completely straight and draped her legs over the side of the bed.

“You all right, sweetheart?”

No response. Brett rubbed his eyes with his fingers, he could make her out through the moonlight coming through the window, but just barely.

“Paige?”

She abruptly stood straight up and began walking towards the door.

Did she hear something? Was she freaking out because he was in her bed? A number of things could be going on in her head. Should he give her privacy?

But something in how she was moving seemed strange, stiff. As she went completely out the door, Brett grabbed his pants from the chair by the bed and pulled them on. He followed her out into the hallway.

“Paige, just let me know you’re okay. If you want to be alone that’s fine, but just talk to me for a second.”

She didn’t even slow down.

But when she got to the door of the room she wouldn’t show him earlier, she stopped. Then opened the door and went inside.

Now Brett really wondered what the hell was going on.

He quickly walked down the hallway and followed her through the door, determined to get some answers. But what he saw made him stop in his tracks.

This wasn’t some messy storage room or closet like he’d thought it might be. This room was perhaps the cleanest in the whole house. It had a sofa and coffee table in one corner and an easel with art supplies in the other, with an artist’s portfolio resting against the wall next to it.

Why wouldn’t she have wanted him to come in here?

Brett watched as Paige walked over and stood in front of the easel, grabbing a colored pencil from a package on a nearby table. Once there, she didn’t move for a long time, so Brett circled around her so he could see her face. Her eyes were wide open, but unfocused, obviously not seeing him.

She was sleepwalking.

He felt better. Sleepwalking happened a lot. One of the twins had walked so much in her sleep as a kid that their parents had put an extra lock at the top of the front door to make sure she didn’t go outside to play on the swing.

They’d found Lydia on the swing, sound asleep, multiple times before putting in the lock. She’d never hurt herself, but it had freaked them all out a little bit to see her ready to play, in her pajamas, eyes open, but unseeing.

Just like Paige was now.

On one hand he was glad she wasn’t upset or trying to run away somewhere where she could freak out privately, overwhelmed by what had happened today. Or tonight.

On the other hand, what was he supposed to do with her? Let her stand here at her easel until she came back to bed? She wasn’t doing anything. But surely this couldn’t be restful for her body.

“Paige? You want to wake up, sweetheart? We could go back to bed,” Brett said it softly, not wanting to jar or scare her. You weren’t supposed to wake sleepwalkers up, right?

Brett gently wrapped an arm around her shoulders and began easing her back from the easel. She took two steps without any fight before jerking free from him and stepping back up to the easel.

He was surprised by the violence in her movement, but was about to try again when the hand holding the pencil moved up and began drawing.

It was spooky to watch, he had to admit. Her hand moved with grace and precision, not stopping at all once the drawing began, except to change colors. But her face never actually looked at what she drew. Whatever it was, however it was happening, it was not because Paige was carefully watching and controlling every stroke.

As a matter of fact it was almost like she was just a puppet and someone else was using her hand to draw.

Brett didn’t want to stop her. He wasn’t sure he could anyway. Soon it was obvious that she was drawing a woman’s face on the large paper attached to the easel. The detail was remarkable, almost like it was a photograph.

He grimaced. Exactly the same style as the one she’d drawn of herself from the hospital. Was this how she’d drawn herself — while she was sleeping? She hadn’t mentioned that.

Of course, nobody would’ve believed her. Hell, he was standing right here watching her draw in her sleep and couldn’t really believe it.

Brett’s relief was palpable when it became obvious that the woman Paige was drawing didn’t have any bruises on her face. It was a testament to Paige’s talent —if you could call drawing without even being awake a talent— that she captured the woman’s expression so precisely.

The woman was smiling. But as Paige added more detail, Brett realized the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She was slightly apprehensive, as if something was causing her concern, but not enough to cause real worry to cross her face.

Paige continued to add more detail with different colored pencils, never hesitating or unsure, reaching for the next pencil without even looking at them.

She drew for at least an hour. Every time Brett thought she must be done she would go back and add another layer of detail, her arm in constant motion. After she was finished with the face, she began to draw in some of the background. It didn’t have nearly as much detail, but he could tell the woman was in a parking lot of some sort.

Paige kept drawing.

If she was awake, she would have to be exhausted. There was no way she could keep her arm moving like that for so long without stopping to stretch it or rest it or something. And it was obviously having further effect on her physically, the pallor in her face grew and at some point her nose began bleeding.

He needed to stop this. Whatever was happening was hurting her. No drawing could be worth the physical price she was paying.

But before he could figure out the best way to wake her, she stopped herself as abruptly as she’d started. Her arm dropped to her side and the pencil fell from her fingers. Brett came closer, waiting for her to do something else, but she didn’t do anything. Just stood there facing the easel.

Brett once again wasn’t certain what he should do. Would she eventually wake up? Go back to bed? Fall in a heap on the floor? She looked like she was about to collapse.

“Paige, are you done drawing, baby? Why don’t you come back to bed?” He realized she was cold, her legs were covered in goose bumps, the arm she hadn’t been using chilly to the touch. He wrapped an arm around her. “Let’s go back to bed.”

She didn’t resist as he turned her from the picture and began walking towards the door. The same visionless gaze still filled her eyes.

Brett walked slowly down the hall with her, in case she stumbled or woke up, but she never faltered. He helped her back into bed and as her head touched the pillow her eyes finally closed. He grabbed some tissue from the bathroom to wipe her nose then wrapped the big comforter around her. He stepped back and watched as she curled up on her side, hugging a pillow, trying to get comfortable. Her body was stiff, obviously in pain. The hand she used to draw rested curled unnaturally against her chest.

Brett realized her fingers were cramping from holding the pencils for so long. He could see her fingers spasm every few seconds. He crouched down so he could take her fingers in his hand, gently rubbing and stretching them, helping to ease the overworked muscles.

Paige relaxed into the bed under his ministrations and was soon obviously deep asleep. Brett released her hand and laid it gently against the pillow she was clutching.

It was after five o’clock now, the sun would be coming up soon. He knew there was no way he’d get back to sleep. He sat down in the overstuffed chair by the bed and looked at the woman lying there. In peace, finally.

He had no idea what he’d just witnessed in that room. All he knew was the more he knew about Paige the weirder things got.