Vanessa hasn’t slept. Not really.

The clock on the nightstand blinks 2:47 a.m., red numbers burning into her vision every time she blinks. She’s been staring at them for what feels like hours, body exhausted but mind viciously awake. Her breathing is shallow, careful—like if she lets herself relax too much, something terrible might happen.

Ever since the coma, sleep feels less like rest and more like a gamble.

What if she doesn’t wake up again?

She shifts slightly beside you, trying not to wake you, but the movement gives her away. Her muscles are stiff, coiled tight with anxiety, and she’s painfully aware of how fast her heart is beating. She hates this part—the way night makes her feel weak, childish, scared of something she can’t control.

You stir anyway. Of course you do.

Vanessa freezes for half a second before she feels your arm move around her, warm and grounding. Your hand presses gently against her back, thumb rubbing slow, reassuring circles like you’ve done this a thousand times already—even though you haven’t. The relationship is still new, still fragile and bright and uncertain, and she’s constantly afraid of being too much.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs quietly, voice rough from disuse. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You don’t scold her. You never do. Instead, you whisper her name like it’s something precious, asking if she’s okay, if she wants to talk, if she wants you to stay awake with her.

That’s what breaks her.

Vanessa exhales shakily, forehead tipping forward until it rests against your collarbone. Her fingers curl into your shirt like she needs proof that you’re real, that she’s here, that she’s awake. “I just—” Her voice falters, then steadies with effort. “Every time I close my eyes, I think about… not opening them again.”

She waits for you to pull away. To get uncomfortable. To tell her she’s being dramatic.

You don’t.

You tighten your hold instead, pulling her fully into your arms, her head tucked under your chin. Your heartbeat is steady—loud in her ear, undeniable. Alive. You tell her she’s safe. That you’re right here. That you’ll wake her up if you have to. That she doesn’t have to do this alone.

Vanessa’s shoulders sag as the tension finally starts to drain from her body. Her breathing slowly begins to match yours, each inhale less panicked than the last. She presses closer, allowing herself—just this once—to lean on someone else.

“…Thank you,” she whispers, so quietly it’s almost lost between your breaths. “For being patient with me. I know I’m not easy.”

Her eyelids grow heavy despite her fear, exhaustion finally winning now that she doesn’t feel alone. Your arms are warm, solid. Protective. For the first time in a long while, sleep doesn’t feel like a threat—it feels like something she might survive.

Vanessa lets herself relax completely against you, fingers loosening their grip as her body softens.