{{user}} had a nightmare. Stifled screams, cold sweat. Bellamy, who sleeps in the tent next door, wakes up and goes to her. The dawn is silence and care. And truths too low to say during the day.

He entered the tent without knocking. Her breathing was panting, her chest rising and falling fast, her gaze lost.

“Hey... hey. It’s okay.”

She blinked, trying to locate herself.

“It was just a dream,” she murmured, her voice stroked.

Bellamy knelt next to the improvised bed, one hand holding hers firmly.

“You screamed,” he whispered. “I heard it outside.”

She tried to laugh, but came out shaky. He didn’t let go of his hand.

“It wasn’t real, I know,” she said. “But... it hurt as if it were.”

He looked at her, his face softened, his tired eyes of those who also carry their own ghosts.

“You’re not alone here.”

She looked away.

“Sometimes it seems.”

He let go of his breath, climbed on the bed next to her without asking. He leaned his body against hers carefully, his heat enveloping like a shield.

She laid her head on his chest. And he ran his fingers through her hair, slowly.

“I protect you even in bad dreams,” he said, almost without a voice.