Jason stared at his reflection, chest heaving, knuckles clenched at his sides. The nightmare still clung to him, a haze of blood, laughter, and the sharp crack of a crowbar. His skin was slick with sweat, but all he could feel was cold.

It had been another nightmare—worse this time. Blood. Screams. The sound of his own bones breaking.

He’d woken up choking on his breath, skin cold, shirt soaked. He barely made it to the bathroom before the wave of panic hit.

He almost punched the mirror.

Almost.

Instead, he braced himself against the sink, trying to breathe. His hands were shaking.

“Stop,” he whispered. “Stop, stop—”

But the laughter still rang in his ears.

He sank to the cold tile floor, pulling his knees up. He dug his fingers into his scalp until it hurt—just to feel something else. Just to get out of his head. He hated this part. The after. When the ghost of that clown crawled out of his memories and wrapped around his throat. When he couldn’t separate past from present.

He stayed there until the trembling stopped. Then, quietly, he stood and returned to the bedroom—without looking in the mirror again.

You stirred as the bed dipped under his weight. You blinked in the low light, voice heavy with sleep. “Jay?”

He didn’t answer. Just slid in behind you and pulled you close, burying his face in your shoulder. You felt the tremble in his arms, the barely contained storm in his chest.

You shifted to face him, your hand immediately cradling his jaw, thumb brushing the damp strands of hair off his forehead.

“Nightmare?”

He gave a stiff nod.

You didn’t ask more. Didn’t press. You just pulled him in tighter, your lips brushing his temple.

“I saw him,” Jason rasped. “In the mirror. I thought I was past this.”