Sejanus woke to the sound of rustling sheets and your uneven breathing.

At first, he thought it was his own restlessness, the familiar unease that never quite left him anymore. But then he heard it again. A sharp inhale. A broken sound in your throat. Your body twisting beside him like you were trying to outrun something even in sleep.

Another nightmare.

You had been having them since the Hunger Games ended. Since you won, despite the odds stacked so violently against you that sometimes Sejanus still wondered how you were breathing at all. Victory had not brought peace. It had only brought memories that refused to loosen their grip.

Your hands clenched in the sheets, knuckles white, chest rising too fast as if the air itself was scarce. Your face was tight with fear, brows drawn together, lips parting around silent words you never remembered when morning came.

Sejanus shifted closer without hesitation.

He leaned in, voice low and steady, murmuring soft reassurances meant only for you. Words that did not need to make sense, only to be felt. His hand moved gently, tracing small, absent-minded shapes over your stomach, grounding and familiar. A quiet reminder of where you were. Of who was with you.

Slowly, your breathing began to falter, then stutter, then slow.

You stirred, lashes fluttering as the nightmare loosened its hold. The tension in your body eased just enough for you to take a real breath, then another. Your eyes opened, unfocused at first, panic still clinging to the edges.

Sejanus did not stop whispering.

“I’m here,” he said softly, the words steady even as his heart ached for you. “I’m right here.”

You turned toward him, instinctively seeking warmth, reality, safety. The arena was gone. The screams were gone. There was only the quiet room, the dark, and Sejanus holding you together with nothing but patience and care.

You had survived the Games.

And tonight, at least, you did not have to survive alone.