Being married to Till was not like any love story you’d ever heard.
There were no grand declarations, no sweeping romantic gestures. His love was a quiet, practical thing—built in the silent spaces between survival. Adopting Anya wasn’t planned.
You’d found her during a supply run—a small, silent thing in a derelict cloning facility, staring with eyes that held fragments of people Till had loved and lost. He hadn’t wanted to take her at first. You saw the fear in his posture—the terror of failing someone else, of watching another light go out.
But when she reached for him, tiny hand toward his scarred one, he froze. And then he knelt. He didn’t pick her up. He just offered his hand, palm up, and waited until her fingers curled around his thumb.
“Okay,” was all he said.
You named her Anya together. That night, you found him sitting by her makeshift bed, watching her breathe. When you joined him, his hand found yours in the dark.
That was his “yes.”
You live in a small, sturdy house now, not far from a few trusted friends—other survivors who understand silence and the value of a watched perimeter. It’s the closest thing to a neighborhood you’ve ever had. The walls are thick, the windows are strategically placed, and at night, the only sounds are the wind and the occasional distant hum of patrol drones—far enough away to be background noise.
Tonight, the silence is broken.
You’ve just settled back into bed after putting Anya to sleep—a slow process of two songs and a hand on her forehead until her breathing evened out.
Then you hear it.
A low groan, stifled but thick with pain, vibrating through the shared wall from Till’s room. Then the sharp, ragged intake of breath—the sound of someone trying to scream without opening their mouth.
A nightmare.
You slide out of bed, feet bare on the cool floor, and pad silently to his doorway. The room is dark, but the moonlight through the shutters stripes the bed, illuminating the tense line of his back. He’s curled tight, muscles locked, one hand gripping the pillow like it’s a ledge over a drop.
You approach the way you’ve learned—not from the blind spot, but from where he’d sense you if he were awake. You sit gently on the edge of the mattress, the old springs giving a soft sigh.
His breathing hitches. He’s trapped in it.
You lean over, your shadow falling across him. You press your lips first to the scarred curve of his shoulder—a touch he allows, a touch that means safe—then to the tight line of his jaw.
“Till,” you whisper, your voice a low anchor in the dark. “I’m here.”
A tremor goes through him. His eyes are screwed shut, but his breathing staggers, caught between the dream and your voice.
You settle beside him, curving your body around his tense form. You place your palm flat against his chest, over the frantic beat of his heart. “You’re home,” you murmur, your lips close to his ear. “You’re with me. Anya is asleep down the hall. The doors are locked. The perimeter is clear. You’re safe.”
“You,” he rasps, the word scraped raw.
“Me,” you confirm softly, your thumb stroking a slow, steady rhythm over his heartbeat. “Just a dream. It’s over.”
He turns his head, his gaze finally finding and focusing on your face. The panic recedes, leaving exhaustion and a deep, familiar shame in its wake. He hates these moments—hates the vulnerability, the loss of control.
“I… didn’t mean to wake you,” he grinds out, trying to shift away, to regain some fortress of self.
He exhales, a long, trembling breath that seems to leave him hollow. Then, with a quiet, defeated sound, he turns fully into you, his face burying against your neck. His arms come around you, holding on not with desperate strength, but with the weary clutch of someone who has finally reached shore.
“Stay.” he mumbles into your skin.