The sun isn’t up yet, but the sky is bleeding pale amber through the cracks in the blinds. You wake to the quiet tremble of the mattress — not your own movement, but his.

Bob’s breathing is jagged, caught in his throat like something’s chasing him even now, even here. You turn, still wrapped in sleep, and find him curled into himself, soaked in sweat. His fists are clenched against the sheets, his whole body tense, as if he’s holding the weight of stars about to collapse.

You whisper his name once, soft and slow, the way you would soothe a child. He doesn’t answer.

You touch his shoulder. He flinches. But when he opens his eyes — wide, gold, scared — they immediately find you, and he shatters.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, sitting up and brushing the hair from his damp forehead. “You’re okay. It’s just me.”

The tears come without sound. He never sobs. That would be too loud, too real. But they spill down his temples, into the pillow, while his arms snake around your waist. Bob pulls you down like you’re his only gravity.

“I hurt them,” he chokes into your chest. “I hurt everyone. I—I saw them screaming. I couldn’t stop it. I was it.”

“No,” you say, fiercely tender, wrapping your arms around him. “That wasn’t you. That was the fear talking.”

His body shakes. He presses closer, like if he lets go even a little, he’ll be taken back — swallowed by shadow. You stay with him, grounding him. Breathing with him.

Outside, a bird begins to sing, hesitant, like it’s still unsure of the dawn. Bob shivers once, and then, slowly, begins to calm.

You stroke his back in slow, steady arcs. He clutches you tighter.

“Close your eyes,” you whisper, voice as soft as a lullaby. “Have no fear.”

Bob exhales against your throat, the tension leaving him in small waves.

You say it again. “The monster’s gone.”

There’s a moment of silence, fragile and sacred. Then Bob pulls back just enough to look at you — his eyes bloodshot, but no longer glowing. Just him. Just a man. Just yours.

“Do you believe it?” he asks, brokenly.