The thunder rattles the windows again. You jolt awake, heart pounding, disoriented for a moment before remembering where you are — in the guest room of the quiet safehouse, the city skyline stretching beyond the rain-blurred glass like a watercolor of distant lights.

But what woke you isn’t the storm.

It’s her.

Across the room, Laurel curled tightly on the narrow couch, knees pulled to her chest, caught in the chokehold of another nightmare. The silk blanket tangled around her is soaked with sweat, her breath ragged and gasping, her fingers digging into arms. Her face is twisted in silent terror, pain too old and too deep to scream anymore.

You’ve seen her fight crime with bare hands against the most brutal monsters society creates. You’ve seen her stare down chaos without flinching. Yet now she shakes uncontrollably, lips trembling, breath hitching around invisible ghosts.

“Please… don’t—” she whispers, voice cracking. “I can’t—no, no—”

You’re by her side before thinking, dropping to your knees on the creaking floorboards. Her lashes are wet, streaks of tears shining against flushed cheeks. She looks impossibly young like this, fragile in a way that feels unreal.

You gently touching her shoulder. She flinches hard, like a trapped animal. For a split second, instinct takes over, her hand lashes up to grab your wrist, grip strong enough to bruise. Her eyes snap open, pupils blown with panic, unfocused, mix of fear and fury.

You don’t pull away.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “You’re not there.”

Her breath shudders and grip loosens. She blinks rapidly, trying to drag herself back to the present. Thunder cracks again and she turned her head like a cat.

“Hell,” she chokes out. “I thought it was all over. I thought the nightmares would stop eventually.”

Her voice breaks apart, and with it the invisible wall she uses to hold herself up. She curls into you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, her body collapsing with exhausted surrender.

The storm rumbles overhead, but in your arms she slowly begins to breathe again. You move your hand through her hair, soft blond strands slipping between your fingers, grounding her, anchoring her.

“They don’t stop just because we pretend they never happened,” you say softly.

She laughs once, broken at the edges. “You sound like Jon,” she murmurs amd lifts her head to look at you — eyes swollen, lashes damp, but clearer now. Searching.