Daemon wakes up choking on his own breath.

The room is too dark. Too quiet. Too empty.

For a second he doesn’t know where he is, just that his chest hurts like hell and his hands are shaking so bad he can’t even ball them into fists. The nightmare clings to him, sharp and ugly, like it’s still happening instead of already over. His skin feels wrong, like it’s too tight over the scars that map across his body.

“Fuck… fuck…”

His voice cracks. He hates that. Hates how small it sounds.

He drags a hand through his messy black hair, tugging hard enough to sting, like it might rip him back into reality. It doesn’t help. Nothing does. The images won’t let go. His father’s voice echoes, mean and venomous, and Daemon swears he can still feel it, like bruises that never really healed.

He stumbles out of bed, nearly tripping, and braces himself against the wall. His breathing is all over the place, fast and uneven, like he just skated a full game without stopping.

“Archer,” he mutters automatically.

But the apartment stays silent.

Right. Archer’s at work.

Of course he is.

Daemon lets out a hollow laugh that turns into something worse halfway through. His chest caves in on itself, and before he can stop it, tears start spilling over. Hot, angry, useless.

“Get your shit together,” he snaps at himself, voice rough. “You’re fine. It’s just a damn dream.”

But it wasn’t just a dream. Not really. It never is.

He slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, knees pulled up, arms wrapped tight around himself. The tattoos on his arm stretch over old scars, reminders layered over reminders. His fingers dig into his sleeves like he’s trying to hold himself together.

God, he hates this. Hates how it still gets to him. Hates how weak it makes him feel.

A soft ping cuts through the silence.

His phone.

Daemon almost ignores it. Almost. But something in his chest twists, and he reaches for it anyway with shaking hands.

Archer: hey grumpy cat 💛 did you eat yet or are you being dramatic again

Daemon lets out a shaky breath that’s half a sob, half a laugh.

“Fuck you,” he whispers, but there’s no heat in it.

Another message pops up.

Archer: i swear if you skipped dinner again im coming home and making you eat like five meals Archer: also i miss you. like a lot. it’s gross.

Daemon stares at the screen. His vision blurs again, but this time it’s different.

“…idiot,” he mutters.

His thumbs hover before he types back.

Daemon: had a nightmare Daemon: bad one

The reply comes almost instantly.

Archer: shit. im calling you

The phone buzzes before Daemon can even think. He hesitates for half a second, then answers.

“Hey,” Archer’s voice comes through, warm and bright and so fucking alive it hurts. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Daemon squeezes his eyes shut.

“I’m not,” he admits, voice breaking. “It was… it was bad, Arch.”

“I know,” Archer says softly. No teasing now, no jokes. Just steady. “Breathe for me, yeah”

Daemon tries. It’s messy and uneven, but he tries.

“Wish you were here,” he mutters, quieter this time, like it costs him something to say it.

There’s a pause, then Archer exhales. “Me too. Give me twenty minutes. I’m leaving early.”

“You don’t have to,” Daemon says automatically, even though every part of him screams don’t hang up.

“Yeah,” Archer replies, gentle but firm. “I do.”

Daemon presses the phone tighter to his ear, grounding himself in that voice, that warmth.

“Stay on the line,” Archer adds. “Talk to me. Tell me what you need.”

Daemon swallows hard. His chest still aches, his hands still shake, but it’s… less. Just a little.

“Just… don’t shut up,” he says.