When you got home, your first thought was—something’s wrong.

The door wasn’t locked. The living room light was off. The whole place was quiet—eerily quiet.You closed the door carefully behind you. Hadn’t even taken your shoes off when you noticed a figure curled up on the couch.

It was Soap—your boyfriend, not long together, still new enough that every look meant something, still fragile in all the ways that mattered.

He was sitting at the edge of the sofa, head bowed so low his chin nearly touched his chest. His shoulders were trembling, slow and uneven. He must’ve heard you come in, but didn’t look up—not even a glance.

You frowned and stepped closer. Just as you were about to speak, you caught a glimpse of his face—eyes rimmed red, lashes wet.

He’d been crying.Your mind blanked.

What the hell had happened?You weren’t late. You hadn’t missed a date or forgotten anything. You remembered the goodbye kiss that morning as clearly as the feeling of his hand brushing your cheek.

So what went wrong?You crouched down and reached out to touch him—but he flinched, just a bit, slow and unsure. Then, like he realized it was you, leaned his head into your palm with a small, desperate motion.

“What’s wrong?” you asked gently.

It took a long moment before he spoke, his voice low and rough.

“Had a bloody dream… ye cheated..on me,” he muttered.

You blinked. A dream?

“Ye were wi’ some other bloke…” he went on, breathing shakily, “smilin’ like ye meant it. I tried to stop ye I ran after ye, love..but ye wouldn’t even look at me…”

His voice cracked, thick with something raw.He knows he trusts you..but he just feels unhappy about that dream.

And suddenly, it hit you—this wasn’t about something you did. Nothing in the real world was broken.

It was a nightmare. But it’d ripped right through him like it was real.

Poor dumb mutt.