From storypeopledotcom:

Sometimes, I wake beside you in the dark and I feel you there for a moment, there's only your soft breathing and this life we've made together with bodies and starlight and love.

This Life Together

When he says, "I don't think we should do it," her own visceral reaction surprises her. He appeared so somber before saying "we need to talk" and then brought up the wedding. She rapidly prepared herself for his frustration about her myriad suggestions she would likely bring into the conversation about different tribal ceremonies.

She prepared for the wrong thing.

The completely wrong thing.

She hated the tears that came. Damn him for making them come.

She doesn't understand, and she's mad that she can't understand. She should be able to understand by now, shouldn't she?

She wants to stay mad at him, but then, in the middle of the night, she awakens to Christine's noises. She doesn't need to get up, but almost does anyway until she looks over at him. He's dreaming, but his skin is taut and she can see sweat forming along his brow. A nightmare.

She can't be angry with him when her protective instincts surface. She slides over closer to him, puts her head on his shoulder, lays an arm across his torso, interrupts the nightmare. He twitches, then wraps his arms around her and settles.

By day she is angry again. Angry at him for his confusing turnabout. Angry at herself for not pressing him for more explanation. Angry for the irrational fear that if she does, he will tell her why.

Uncertainty presses too heavily on her to find out why.

Finally, she finds ways to ask everyone else. They seem safer, which strikes her as odd, because she has always felt safe with him.

And at night, she still does. She can't explain it.

She will still be angry by day, just a little bit, because it's all too irrational – his secrecy, his behavior, her ability to trust him.

She holds onto the night.