You wake to the faint sound of clinking glass. The kitchen light’s on. Andrew’s sitting at the table with a mug of something dark, eyes fixed on the steam curling above it. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. “You should be asleep,” he says quietly, voice hoarse from the hour. You shrug, mumbling something about nightmares or caffeine. He stares at you for a beat too long, then slides the mug across the table. “Take it. It’s bitter, but it’ll wake you up.” His fingers brush yours — cold, steady. When you ask why he’s awake, he tilts his head slightly. “Same reason you are.” Then, softer: “You stop running, and your head gets loud.”