We stand there for a second, both of us blinking at each other like our brains are still buffering.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, eyes scanning my face like he’s looking for cracks.
I nod, then shake my head, then settle somewhere in the middle. “I had a bad dream.”
His jaw tightens a little. “About him?”
I hesitate, then nod. “Yeah.”
He steps closer without thinking, not touching me yet, just close enough that I can feel his warmth. “You wanna sit down?”
“I just needed water,” I say, lifting the glass like proof of life. “And maybe to remind myself that I am, in fact, not trapped in my own nightmare.”
He gives a quiet huff of a laugh. “Solid plan.”
I take another sip, then glance at him. “Did I wake you up?”
“Yeah,” he says simply. “But that’s fine.”
Something about the way he says it makes my throat tighten again, and I really wish my emotions would stop freelancing.
“I didn’t mean to,” I say.
“You don’t have to mean anything right now,” he replies. “You wake up, you wake up. That’s it.”
I shift my weight, suddenly aware that I’m standing in his kitchen in his shirt at almost one in the morning with my nerves still doing gymnastics.
He leans back against the counter across from me, mug in his hand, watching me in that quiet, steady way that makes me feel seen without feeling judged.
“You want to talk about the dream?” he asks. “Or you want to pretend it didn’t happen?”
I consider that. “Maybe… not right now.”
“Okay,” he says easily. “Then we don’t.” Silence settles between us, not awkward, just… late-night quiet. Then he says, softer, “I’m glad you woke up.”
I look up at him. “Why?”
“Because if you were having a nightmare, I’d rather you be out here with me than stuck in it alone.” He just reaches for my hand and gently tugs. “Come on. Back to bed.”
Something in his voice tells me this isn’t a suggestion, and honestly, I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts right now anyway.
I follow him down the hall, barefoot and exhausted and still wound too tight. He doesn’t turn on any lights, just guides me by the hand like he already knows exactly where we’re going.
He climbs in first and pulls the blanket back, then opens his arms without saying a word. I slide in against him, my cheek settling on his chest, his arm coming around my back immediately, firm and steady like he’s anchoring me in place. His hand rests between my shoulder blades, warm and solid, and my body finally, finally exhales.
“Better?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “A little.”
He shifts so I’m tucked closer, my head fitting right under his chin, and I can feel the slow, heavy rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear. It’s stupid how much that helps, but it does. Like my nervous system is borrowing his calm because I ran out of my own.
We lie there in the dark, breathing together, and for the first time since I woke up, my thoughts slow down enough that I’m not replaying everything on a loop.
But I’m also… wide awake. My hand is resting on his stomach, fingers splayed over warm skin and ink, and I don’t know whenI started doing it, but I’m tracing the lines of his tattoos without thinking. Following the curves and edges, the way the designs move when he breathes.
He stills just a little. Not pulling away. Just… aware. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just… distracting myself.”
