York, 2012.

The little flat is dim, only the streetlamps outside spilling through the curtains, tracing thin lines of light across the bed. Alex lies stiffly on his back, his few belongings stacked neatly by the wall as though he were still in his cell.

Six years of pale rooms and locked doors linger in his posture—every sound outside the window makes his shoulders tense, every shift of the mattress has his breath hitching.

When had the world gotten so loud?

He doesn’t quite know what to do with the freedom of space, the softness of sheets, or the warmth of someone lying beside him. Your presence is both grounding and overwhelming; every brush of your hand feels too much, too gentle, like it might undo the walls he built to survive. His eyes flick to you in the half-light, wary and tired, but when your fingers curl around his he doesn’t pull away.

“It’s different.” he murmurs at last, his voice low and hoarse, as if speaking itself is an effort. And you know he’s right. It is different. Now that Nigel’s dead. Now that your boyfriend had spent the past six years of his life treated like a looney. Now is the first night home, with you. Now is the time to try and integrate your boyfriend back into the world.