It was a progression.

                It started during our fifth date, the day after Chanyeol’s high school graduation.

                “Ow,” he muttered under his breath, brushing his fingers over his forehead.

                I stopped in my tracks and looked back, lurching forward to grab his arm when he stumbled over his own legs.  “Are you all right?  You look like you need to sit down.”

                “I’m fine.  Just a little dizzy, that’s all.”  He waved my hands away and steadied himself, continuing to walk along as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

                The second time occurred just three weeks later.  By then I had lost track of how many dates we had been on and couldn’t tell whether spending hours on end together on a daily basis even counted as going on dates anymore.

                “Are you almost done?” I asked, closing in on him as he focused on sketching the willow.

                “Mm,” he replied, still paying me no attention.

                I poked at his waist, to which he dropped his charcoal and jumped.  Before I realized what was happening, he grabbed at my ribs lightly, wriggling his fingers as I attempted to suppress my laughter.  I caught one of his wrists and pushed myself against him, holding him down against the ground to tickle him until he was gasping for breath.

                I kneeled over him, my knees locking against his hips and my fingers sweeping the stray hairs from his face.  Just as I leaned down, eyes on his lips, he clamped a hand on his forehead, his eyes squeezing shut.  I pulled back and got off him, easing him up to a sitting position.

                “What’s up with you lately?  Are you getting enough sleep?”

                He massaged his temples, nodding slightly while scooting toward the tree.  “It’s okay.  The doctor said I’d have a few headaches after the accident.  Head trauma or something.  It’s no big deal.”

                Slinging an arm over his shoulder, I brought his body against mine, pressing a kiss into his hair, repeating his words over and over in my mind until we both dozed off in each other’s warmth.

                It’s no big deal.

                Two months had passed by the time I had become relatively unfazed by his sudden headaches, but I soon realized it was only the beginning to the oncoming rise of problems.

                The reality of the situation didn’t hit me until he refused to take a ride in my car.

                “You’ve gotten in before.  What’s the problem now?” I asked, bewildered by his expression of uncertainty.  He retracted when I reached for his hand, his eyes enlarging in surprise at his own unusual reaction.

                “Sorry, I—I’m just not up for a drive today.  Feeling a little restless.”  He smiled apologetically, stepping away from the vehicle.  “Let’s go for a walk instead.”

                “We haven’t gone for a drive since the zoo.  We’ve been going for walks for four months,” I said slowly, having difficulty comprehending what was so terrible about being in my car until I saw his hands tremble, and I could’ve sworn his pupils dilated in fear.  I locked the car doors and brushed my knuckles against his before delicately locking our fingers together.  “Let’s go for a walk.”

                Five silent minutes later, his voice nearly inaudible, he murmured, “I get nightmares.”

                “About what?”  I didn’t notice how stupid my question was until he gave me a side-glance.  “Oh.  Right.  Go on.”

                He took a deep breath and wiped his free hand on his jeans.  “It’s always the same dream, one way or the other.  Every night is a different variation of getting hit, sent flying off my bike, slamming against the pavement.  The lights in my eyes, the tires—”  His breath uneven, he looked as if he were reliving it, as if the sun glared like headlights in his unblinking eyes, and he came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk.

                “The tires?” I encouraged, tugging gently at his hand.

                He blinked at me and stepped forward, clearing his throat.  “Screeching.  The tires screeching, the driver trying to wake me.”  He looked away, pace slowing as he added quietly, “Sometimes he does it on purpose.”

                I attempted to keep myself from shuddering.  “Do they scare you?”

                “No.”  He hesitated momentarily but shook his head forcefully as if it were ridiculous.  “I’m not scared of them.  It’s just getting repetitive.”

                It was the first time I didn’t believe him.