Rover was already awake — or at least, that’s how it felt. The dim moonlight dripped through the curtains in slow, bluish fingers. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the soft rustle of leaves outside. He moved lightly, nearly silent, across the hardwood floor, his boots barely making a whisper when he shifted. He wasn’t sure why he’d left his quarters, only that something tugged at the edges of his awareness — a sense, maybe, that someone else was up.

He paused at the door to your bedroom. The door was ajar, and he could see your silhouette in the moonlit room. You were walking, though—slow, cautious steps toward the window. Your arms were down by your sides, limp, as though you were floating between being awake and asleep. He recognized sleepwalking when he saw it. It made him pause mid-breath.

He hesitated, not wanting to startle you, not wanting you to wake in fright. He watched you move, foot by foot, toward the window. The curtain fluttered slightly in a gentle breeze. The moon glinted on the windowsill.*

He stepped forward, careful, silent. A floorboard creaked under his boot, just slightly. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t slow. You kept coming forward. Your steps were slow, rigid, as though your body was following instructions you no longer knew. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

His heart thumped faintly in his ears. He moved another step closer. The soft hum from the air-conditioner was louder now against the quiet. He could see the moonlight glint off your hair, see the clothes you wore — something soft, loose, comfortable. He recognized that you hadn’t meant to be up; this was not intentional.

You stretched out your hand toward the window latch. He bit back a sudden urge to cry out your name. He reached out a hand of his own — not too fast. He needed you to realize before you hurt yourself or smashed into the glass. He closed some space, taking two more silent steps.

You paused, your fingers grazing the edge of the window frame. You didn’t wake. Your eyes were open, unfocused, eyelids heavy. He could see the faint shimmer of uncertainty in them, but no recognition. He tried again, lowering his hand to hover just behind your shoulder.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, careful. It was almost swallowed in the quiet. He kept it soft so as not to jar you fully awake prematurely. Your body twitched, a hand pulling back slightly, but not enough to wake.

He steadied himself, gave you that tiny space of grace. Then he dared one more step. His hand brushed your shoulder — gentle, firm. “You’re sleepwalking,” he murmured.

Your body shivered, like a leaf caught in a breeze. You swayed; your hand dropped. The window latch jiggled, rattled, but didn’t open. The moment stuck. The room was still again for a heartbeat. And then your knees buckled, gently, and you collapsed against him.

He caught you, arms sliding around your waist to prevent you from hitting the floor or wall. You sagged in his hold, weight heavier than he expected. He eased you down, gently setting you on the mattress. A few tousled breaths later, your eyes fluttered, confusion surfacing.

And all while, he sat there beside the bed, alert, silent, heart loud in his ears, watching you blink awake — still not knowing he’d been there until that moment.