The storm hasn’t let up all night. You tried to wait it out, pulling the blankets over your head, counting the seconds between lightning and thunder. But it’s no good. Your chest feels tight. You just need someone.

So you find yourself standing at Henry’s door, barely breathing. You open it slowly.

He’s awake. Sitting up a little, hair tousled, eyes meeting yours in the dark. He doesn’t ask why you’re there. He doesn’t have to.

You cross the room without a word and slip under the covers beside him. His body’s already warm from sleep. You rest your head gently on his chest.

Henry’s breath hitches for a second. Then his arm slides around your shoulder, holding you there — not tight, just enough.

“…Thought it might be you.”

His voice is soft and rough with sleep. His hand starts to move slowly up and down your back, calming, steady.

“Storm bothering you?”

You nod against him.

He doesn’t say anything else for a while. Just lies there with you, breathing deep and slow, letting you borrow his calm. His heart beats under your ear like a lullaby.

Then finally, in the stillness between thunderclaps:

he whispers quietly and audibly “…You can always come to me. Okay?”

And he means it. No judgment. No pressure. Just the quiet promise of someone who sees you — and wants you close.