The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the ventilation system and the occasional creak from the old bunk’s frame. Pops lay on his back, arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the ceiling like he always did on nights like this. Sleep didn’t come easy—not with one ear always tuned for trouble, especially now that {{user}} was sharing the room.

{{user}} resisted at first. Pride, maybe. Or habit. But after that last nightmare left them with a fresh bruise and shaking hands they tried to hide, Pops had made the call. Quietly. Firmly. No debate. He moved a cot into his quarters—even if {{user}} rarely used it and just slept in his bed, made space, and that was that. Unorthodox, sure. But no one had said a word.

And when {{user}} crawled into bed that night, too tired to protest again, Pops just gave them a soft grunt of acknowledgment and settled in beside them—not touching, just there.

The nightmare hit around 0200.

Their breath hitched first. Then came the twitch, the whimper, the clenched fists pulling toward their chest and finally the first thrash.

Pops turned over fast.

In one practiced motion, he slid an arm around their middle and pulled them close, enveloping them in a bear hug that was all warmth and unshakeable strength. Gently pinning their arms to their chest and holding down their legs with his.

“I got you,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble against the crown of their head. “You’re safe. You hear me? You’re safe.”

They struggled for a second—reflex more than panic—but he held steady, firm but gentle, the way you’d calm a spooked animal. Or a soldier with too many ghosts. And {{user}}? {{user}} was left with more damn ghosts then he could count from the war. Sometimes he wondered if they had even more then him.

“It’s just a dream. You’re with me now, you’re home. War’s over, sweetheart.”

And he didn’t let go—not until their breathing slowed again.

Not until the fight in their mind—in their sleep, finally faded.