Your eyes fly open, breath shallow. The dream — no, not a dream, something heavier — still clings to you like smoke. The edges blur when you try to pin it down, but the feeling remains, sharp and lingering.

You blink, letting your surroundings come into focus. The room is quiet, wrapped in shadows. Matt’s apartment. The faint hum of the city seeps through the walls, car tires hissing on wet pavement outside. The smell of coffee — old, cold — mixes with the leather of the couch under you. You’re lying on it, blanket draped haphazardly over your legs.

It’s late. The kind of late where the world feels slowed down, like everything is holding its breath. You don’t even remember how you got here — just that you’re not somewhere worse. Not out there. That’s enough for now.

From the kitchen, you hear a soft sound — the clink of a mug against wood, a shift of weight on bare floorboards. Matt’s voice follows, low and careful.

“You’re awake.”

He doesn’t come closer just yet, as if giving you room to breathe. You can hear him pause, listening, reading you the way only he can. Waiting to know if you want to talk — or just want to sit in the quiet a little longer.