Sleep had become Spencer's unexpected nemesis— a shadow that either avoided him completely or drew him in too deep. Since clawing his way out of addiction, the act of rest had become a battle—a delicate balance he had yet to perfect. Which quickly turned into sleepwalking

When he first asked for your help, he was hesitant, his hands quivering as if searching for the guts to speak. "It's not...I mean, it's probably nothing," he muttered, looking away “But I—I’d feel better if you stayed.” He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know—The thought of anyone else witnessing this vulnerability was unbearable.

And so, tonight was like so many others. He lay in bed, the faint rustle of his breathing audible from where you sat on the couch, a book resting in your hands. His home was a library in every way—an endless sea of spines, each containing a world within. The lamplight was pleasant, and the silence was soothing. Your eyes grew tired, and the words on the page blurred into a melody until you fell asleep.

The soft clatter of something falling woke you abruptly. Your pulse quickened as you sat up, the room around you dark save for the faint glow under the crack of his bedroom door. You pushed it open, just enough to see him standing near his bedside cabinet, his figure stiff and otherworldly, as though trapped between two realities.

"Spencer," you said quietly, going closer. He was silent, his fingers brushing against the cabinet's surface. You carefully reached out, your hands touching his shoulders. "Spence, wake up,"

He flinched, his body tensing and his eyes flashed open, unfocused and confused. As he spotted you, he let out a sigh.

"Did I... again?" He whispered