The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city outside. The shadows stretched long across the walls, but they weren’t what had woken {{user}}. Her breath came uneven, heart pounding against her ribs as the last remnants of the nightmare clung to her. It had felt so real—Black Noir, broken, lifeless, gone.

Her pulse only steadied when she turned and saw him beside her.

Noir slept soundly, his broad frame relaxed in a way that few ever got to see. His mask was off, exposing the scars that told a story he never spoke of. Even in sleep, there was tension in his face, as if some part of him remained alert, waiting.

{{user}} swallowed, still shaken, and reached out on instinct. Her fingers brushed against his jaw, tracing along the ridges of old wounds. Just a touch. Just enough to remind herself that he was here—that he was real.

Noir’s breath hitched ever so slightly, but he didn’t stir. Anyone else would have been met with a blade to the throat, but with her, he remained still. Trusting.

{{user}} let her hand linger a moment longer before retreating, exhaling softly as she curled closer beside him. He wouldn’t say anything when he woke—he never did. But he would notice. He always noticed. And she knew that somehow, without a word, he’d find a way to reassure her.