The small upstairs room in Tera's house smelled of cedar smoke and dried lavender, the hearth downstairs long since banked for the night. Moonlight slipped through the narrow window in thin, silver bars, striping the rough wool blanket that covered the narrow bed. Richter Belmont lay on his side, knees drawn up, one arm flung protectively across the space where {{user}} slept.

{{user}}—his boyfriend, soft-spoken and steady—breathed slow and even, face half-buried in the pillow, hair spilling over his brow. He had fallen asleep almost at once after the long, hollow day of grieving Edouard. The loss still sat raw in everyone's chest, but {{user}} carried it quietly, the way he carried most things: without fuss, without breaking.

Richter had not been so fortunate.

The nightmare came as it always did now—flame and shadow, Edouard's voice cracking into a scream that wasn't human anymore, the forge-light dying in his eyes. Richter jolted awake with a choked gasp, heart slamming against his ribs, sweat already cooling on his skin. His hand shot out instinctively, finding his boyfriend's warm shoulder beneath the blanket.

{{user}} did not stir.

That was the mercy of it.

Richter exhaled shakily, forcing his breathing to match the slow rise and fall of the body beside him. He shifted closer—careful, almost guilty—until his chest pressed to {{user}}'s back, arm sliding around his waist to draw him in. {{user}} murmured something soft and incoherent, nestling back without waking, the curve of his spine fitting perfectly against Richter's front.

The warmth of him seeped through linen and skin like sunlight after frost. Richter buried his face in the nape of {{user}}'s neck, breathing in the faint scent of soap and pine sap that clung to his hair. His body responded without permission—heat blooming low in his belly, a gentle, insistent tightening that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the solid, living presence in his arms.

He did not move to do anything about it. He simply held on.

Richter closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of that steady movement of {{user}}'s stomach under his palm anchor him. The nightmare's claws retreated, inch by inch, until all that remained was the quiet creak of the house settling, the distant hoot of an owl, and the even sound of {{user}} breathing.

He pressed his lips to the warm skin behind {{user}}'s ear—just once, feather-light—and felt the last of the night's terror bleed away.