The first thing you notice is the quiet.

Not absence of sound—but absence of pressure. No alarms. No restraints. No distant machinery humming like it’s alive. Just stillness… and breath.

Then him.

Remy is sitting nearby—not too close, not too far. Like he’s been measuring distance carefully, making sure the space between you is something you control, not him.

His posture is relaxed, but his eyes aren’t. They stay on you constantly, tracking small movements, reactions, anything that says you’re here.

When you shift—when you wake fully—he reacts instantly, but gently. No sudden movement. No overwhelming rush.

Just presence.

“Hey…”

His voice is quiet. Grounded. Different from the usual ease—it’s careful in a way that feels intentional.

“Easy now, chère… don’t push yourself too fast.”

A faint exhale leaves him, like he’s been holding tension in his chest for longer than he wants to admit.

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting loosely on his knees—but still keeps space between you, letting you choose everything.

“You’re safe. Alright? You’re out.”

A pause. His jaw tightens just a little.

“Trask ain’t got you anymore.”

His gaze softens, just barely.

“And nobody’s gonna put you back in that place. Not while I’ve got anything to say about it.”

Another quiet beat.

Then, more gently—almost unsure, but steady anyway:

“If you wanna talk… I’m here.”

A small tilt of his head.

“If you don’t… I’m still here.”