The dormitory was quiet, save for the occasional creak of ancient wood and the hush of wind slipping through the castle stone. Marlene stirred before she registered the fingers at her shoulder—soft, hesitant, trembling slightly. Her eyes blinked open into the dim haze of moonlight spilling across the room, catching in the gold of her lashes. You.

She didn't need to ask why you were here. She saw it in your face: the drawn edges, the quiet desperation that hadn’t yet made it to your lips. She didn’t say a word. Words weren’t needed, not with you—not at two in the morning with your knees pressed together like a held-in breath and your eyes heavy from the weight of a dream you couldn’t escape.

She just shifted the covers back in silent invitation.

You climbed in like you had before, like you always did when the dark crawled too far inside your head. And gods, you were warm. Too warm. Your skin touched hers and that was all it took—her heart gave that familiar traitorous lurch and she hoped to hell you couldn’t hear it hammering in her ribs.

Her arm went around your shoulder without thinking, practiced now, muscle memory shaped by months of midnight visits and early-morning escapes. You curled into her like you belonged there. Like you knew exactly how her body curved, where her breath would fall. And maybe you did. But not like she knew you.

She swallowed hard, her throat tight with everything she’d never say. “Same one?” she murmured finally, her voice a gravel-soft rasp against your temple.

You nodded. She felt it, not saw it. The motion small and tired and real. She tightened her arm. Just enough. Just until you let out that breath—like the world could wait now, because Marlene had you, and you'd always trusted her to catch you when you fell like this. It should have been enough. It wasn’t.

She let her fingers brush against your back, gentle strokes over fabric, her touch feather-light. Comfort, she told herself. Nothing else. You buried your face in her neck. Her eyes shut.

She could survive this. She had before. But every time you came to her like this—soft and trusting and heartbreakingly close—she wondered how many nights she had left before her heart gave out entirely.

“Sleep,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

Always here. Even if you never looked at her the way she looked at you.