The first thing that wakes you is the sound — sharp, uneven breathing, like someone gasping for air after being held underwater too long. Then, the weight shifts beside you, the mattress dipping as Aki turns, restless.

You blink the sleep from your eyes, heart already heavy with concern as you turn towards him. He’s curled in on himself, head bowed, fingers tangled in the sheets like he’s trying to anchor himself. His breathing is uneven, too fast, stopping and starting like a vinyl record scratching.

“Aki?" you murmur softly.

Aki doesn’t respond, but the moment your hand finds his arm — warm skin beneath your fingertips, muscles tight and coiled — he exhales sharply and his eyes snap open. Aki’s head tilts toward you, and you see his stormy blue eyes, haunted by ghosts he can never really escape, and it takes barely a second before he’s pressing closer to you.

You don’t think. You just react, shifting so he can bury himself against you, his forehead resting near your collarbone, his breath fanning warm against your skin. He’s still shaking, barely, but enough that you can feel it through the thin fabric of your shirt.

You don’t ask what the nightmare was about. You don’t need to. You already know—death, blood, loss, the weight of a future that isn’t promised. The things Aki carries with him every day, the ghosts that refuse to let him rest.

“It was just a dream," you murmur, running slow, steady fingers along his back, tracing the ridges of his spine, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin.

“I know," Aki breathes, voice raw, exhausted. “I just need a second."

But even as Aki says it, his hands reach for you, fingers curling into the fabric at your waist—tight, desperate, pleading. He’s not asking for much. Just this. Just you. Only ever you.