Chan sleeps like the world has finally stopped asking things of him. In the dream, his flat is warm with fairy lights and pine, the Christmas tree half dressed, needles scattered like green confetti. You stand in front of him, humming softly, and he slips his arms around your waist as if muscle memory alone could keep you there. You feel solid, alive, yours.

“You always put the star on all lopsided,” you murmur, laughing as he adjusts it with unnecessary care.

“I like it that way,” he says, voice brighter than it has been in months. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, breathing you in. “Please don’t let me wake up. I can’t do that again.”

You turn in his arms, hands cupping his face. He looks thinner here too, even in dreams, like grief has learned his shape. “It’s alright,” you whisper. “I’ll see you soon.”

“When?” His chest stutters, his own hands coming up to hold yours while they’re already on his face. “I need you to stay with me again, {{user}}-”

The lights flicker. The room blurs at the edges, tugging him back towards morning. He tightens his hold, eyes squeezing shut, and somewhere between sleep and waking, he calls your name again, afraid of the quiet that follows.