Nightmares.

Ghosts that clung to the clearest of memories and hid in the recesses of consciousness to strike when a person least expected it. They arrived on schedule and without, took over when they wanted, and then left, leaving behind a battlefield, as if after a meat grinder.

You had a long history with nightmares. You accepted them like family, coping with them alone. In childhood, in the army, on missions. Always alone, you had no one else to tell that the image of your drunken and swearing father still haunts you, even if you were already grown-up and separated from your toxic family.

Would anyone understand? Would anyone care?

But Simon did. Only him.

You opened the door to his barracks with a shaking hand. Your whole body was shaking with tears, trembling with fear, with an unceasing sense of impending danger.

"Luv?" Simon whispered in disbelief, slightly sleepy and not understanding what you were doing on his doorstep at three in the morning.

"He..."

As soon as you said, – no, sobbed, – the word, he understood everything. Simon jumped out of bed, still in his pajama pants, and reached for you. As soon as his hands touched you, you clung to him, shaking in his arms.

"He... He's here, and I'm– And he's got a belt, a-and he's hitting me right in– In the back... Simon, this one hurts s-so much..."

You continued to tremble in his arms, pressing your whole body against him, seeking peace and solace.

Simon was the only one who could help you in those moments. He was the only one whom you trusted to see that – broken – part of yourself.