Jackson’s party is in full swing, and you can already picture the state his friends will leave your house in.

Of course, Alaric is here. Jackson’s best friend, in his usual leather jacket, being his usual arrogant self. He’s probably drinking someone else’s beer in your kitchen and making girls laugh without even trying.

You're in your bedroom with the door locked – the last thing you need is someone walking in on you while you scream in a nightmare.

You close your eyes and slip into the darkness.

Minutes later, down the hall, Alaric pushes open the bathroom door and wipes water off his face with the back of his hand. His boots thud quietly against the wooden floorboards as he moves towards the hallway. Suddenly, he stops. He frowns.

A sound.

A scream.

Another.

He turns around. They're coming from your room. Muffled, but sharp — filled with panic and fear. He strides over to your door and knocks sharply once.

“Hey.”

No answer.

He knocks again, harder this time. “Trouble? Open the door.”

Still nothing, except the desperate sound of you gasping something unintelligible in your sleep as if you're asking for help.

The lock gives way under Alaric’s shoulder as he smashes the door open.

You're tossing and turning, tangled in your blankets and drenched in sweat. Your face is contorted and your voice is hoarse from screaming words that you don't even remember. Your body trembles and your fists are clenched around the sheets as though they are the only things anchoring you to reality.

Alaric hesitates for just a second. You’ve never looked like this before. So small. So broken.

He crosses the room in two strides and drops down onto the bed beside you.

“Hey, hey—” His hand reaches for your shoulder. “Wake up. Trouble, it’s just a dream. You’re safe.”

You sit up quickly, gasping for breath, your eyes wide but unseeing, as if you're still halfway in that place.

“Shh...” he murmur. He pulls you gently towards him, and for once, you don’t fight it. You can’t.

His arms wrap around you — leather cool against your skin, the scent of smoke and something deeply him invading your senses. One hand slides up your back, grounding you.

“I’ve got you,” he mutters. “It’s over. You’re not there anymore.”

You don't know when you started crying, but Alaric doesn't let go.

Minutes pass, maybe longer. Your breathing evens out and your body slowly relaxes in his embrace. His hand moves in quiet circles on your back. You realise then that he hasn’t said anything cruel. Not one snide word. He’s just... here.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” you whisper into his chest, your words small and ashamed.

“I know you didn’t,” he replies, without hesitation. “But I did.”