{{user}} wakes to the sound of uneven breathing.

It takes a moment to place the noise—soft, sharp, just barely louder than the night itself. Not quite a gasp. Not quite a cry. But familiar. Too familiar.

Tim.

They blink in the dim light, eyes adjusting to the shifting shadows of the room. The clock reads 4:58 AM. The sky outside is still dark, painted in shades of navy and bruised violet. In a few minutes, the first light will start to filter in. In a few minutes, maybe, the world will feel normal again.

But not now.

Beside them, Tim twists in the sheets, jaw locked tight, fingers curled into fists against the pillow. His body is tense, shoulders hunched like he's bracing for impact. His lips part slightly, a whisper of something slipping out—a name? A plea? It’s too soft to catch. But it hurts to hear.

He wasn’t supposed to still be up.

{{user}} had begged him to come to bed hours ago, when the clock struck 3:30 and his posture hadn’t moved from the hunched, haunted hunch he wears after a night of digging through Gotham’s rot. They had stood at the foot of the Batcomputer, arms crossed, voice hoarse from sleep, trying not to sound like they were breaking inside. “Please. Just come to bed.” He’d looked at them, eyes bloodshot and far away, and said he’d follow them in five minutes.

An hour and a half later, he finally did.

And now he’s trapped in something darker than the city he tries to save.

{{user}} lies still, watching him. Listening. The urge to wake him claws at their chest, but they hesitate. Again. They always hesitate. What if shaking him only pulls him deeper? What if touching him makes him flinch again like last time? What if he doesn't want them there—if this is something he wants to carry alone?

He hasn't really talked to them in days. Not deeply. Not the way he used to, when he’d crawl into bed and tell them half-formed thoughts at 2 AM—quiet confessions, small smiles, guarded hopes he never let anyone else see. Now those thoughts stay locked behind his eyes. Now he says he's “fine” and kisses their forehead like a promise he doesn’t have time to keep.

So maybe the real question isn’t whether he’s having a nightmare.

Maybe it’s whether {{user}} is still allowed to pull him out of it.

They swallow hard, blinking back the tight sting behind their eyes. Are they not enough for him anymore? Did they miss the moment the walls went up? Or was he always going to drift like this—further, colder, even as he lies right next to them?

A part of them wants to call his name. Another part wants to pretend they’re asleep, to wait until morning, to avoid the answer altogether.

But he shudders again, a soft sound escaping his lips, raw and afraid.

{{user}} reaches out, trembling fingers hovering just above his shoulder.

Do they wake him?

Do they ask what's haunting him?

Or do they lie back down and pretend that love is enough to fix what he won’t say out loud?