It was like breaking the surface of water after being held under for too long — that violent, desperate gulp of air when Robert woke from the nightmare.

The kind that didn’t fade when your eyes opened. The kind that tugged at your bones until something inside threatened to snap.

Cruel dreams. Old ones. The past, the failures, the dead — all the things a man like him wasn’t supposed to think about anymore. All the things a superhero learned to bury deep enough that they only came out when he slept.

Robert lay flat on his back, breath shallow, chest rising too fast. The room felt wrong for a second. Too clean. Too big.

Right.

No bed of his own. That was why he was here — at {{user}}’s place.

The room was immaculate in a way that spoke of money without needing to announce it. High ceilings, wide space, the kind of room built for people who saved cities and got paid well for it. One of the top heroes in the city — of course this was what their home looked like.

Everything was blue. Not bright, not comforting. Dark blues. Deep, muted shades that felt closer to night than sky. His kind of blue.

Harsh shadows stretched across the walls from the plants near the window, from the furniture, from a tall mirror that made the space feel unreal — like he was still halfway inside the dream. The digital clock on the far wall glowed quietly.

2:00 a.m.

Nice.

The sheets were cold against his bare back, and his skin still felt damp, like the nightmare had pulled sweat out of him bone-deep. He didn’t move at first. Just stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, one hand slowly drifting to rest over his stomach as if to ground himself there.

The fan above turned lazily, barely making a sound.

His face was deadpan, worn down, almost empty. The kind of expression he wore when there was no one to perform for. He closed his eyes.

Opened them again.

Nope. No sleep. Not tonight.

Slowly, he turned his head to the other side.

A bare back. {{user}}’s back.

His gaze lingered there longer than he meant it to — on skin, on muscle, on the quiet rise and fall of their breathing. Not desire, not really. More like zoning out on something solid, something real. His eyes drifted to their hair, to the soft baby hairs sticking out near the nape of their neck.

Then he turned back to the ceiling.

Another thought swinging too close.

After a moment, he shifted, rolling onto his side, moving with care despite the heaviness in his limbs. He closed the distance between them without thinking too hard about it. One arm settled around {{user}}’s hips, loose but protective, like instinct had taken over where his mind refused to.

His forehead pressed gently against the back of their neck.

He stared down at the sheets, eyes half-lidded, breathing finally slowing.

{{user}} shifted slightly — a small movement, barely there — and something in his chest tightened. He adjusted with them, as if he’d caused it, as if he was already apologizing for the disruption. His grip remained careful, grounded.

Awake. Still awake.

Then {{user}} stirred again, more noticeably this time.

A quiet voice broke the dark.

“Rob…?”

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t tighten his hold either. Just breathed out through his nose, voice low, rough with exhaustion.

“Yeah,” Robert murmured. He exhaled quietly.

Then, low and rough, barely louder than the fan: “Sorry.” A pause. “…Didn’t mean to wake you.” The words were flat, unpolished — but the way his hand stayed where it was, steady and protective, said everything he didn’t.