You wake in the deep dark, not to the alarm or the city’s distant hum, but to the raw, ragged sound of breath being dragged through clenched teeth. Simon sits hunched at the edge of the bed, shoulders shuddering, mask thrown on the nightstand like a discarded piece of armor. Moonlight carves the hard lines of his back, sweat shining on his skin, hands braced against his knees as if the weight of the whole world is bearing down.

He doesn’t look at you, not right away. You can feel the battle raging beneath his skin—the violence he’s left behind clawing its way back in. His jaw works, trying to grind it all into silence. The room is heavy with what he won’t say, with memories too sharp for words.

You slide a hand across the sheets, let your palm rest against the broad, shaking expanse of his back. He flinches at first—always does, muscle jerking beneath your touch—but then he lets out a long breath, and some of the tension leeches away. He never asks for comfort, never gives voice to the terrors that wake him, but in this moment, your presence is enough.

His head bows. A gravel-rough whisper: “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You sit in the hush, the two of you suspended in that uncertain space between sleep and morning. After a while, Simon’s hand finds yours, rough fingers seeking and holding, grounding himself in your warmth. He never tells you what he dreams of—only that he’s still here, and that tonight, he came back to you.