The clock read 2:47 AM.

Eli sat at the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his knees, fingers interlocked as he watched you sleep. His sharp gaze traced the soft rise and fall of your chest, the slight furrow between your brows even in unconsciousness. The room was silent, save for the steady rhythm of your breathing.

He hadn’t slept. Again.

But that wasn’t new.

Eli had long stopped caring about the dull ache in his skull from exhaustion, the heavy weight pressing behind his eyes. Sleep was a luxury, one he couldn’t afford when it came to you. Because every time the darkness crept in, every time the ghosts of your past threatened to pull you under, he needed to be here. To ground you. To make sure you weren’t alone.

His fingers twitched as you shifted slightly, a soft sound escaping your lips, a murmur of something incoherent. He stiffened, his body going rigid as he watched for any sign of distress. Some nights were worse than others. Some nights, you woke up gasping, panic clawing at your throat, your fingers curling into the sheets like they were the only thing tethering you to reality.

And some nights, you didn’t wake at all.

But he could see it—trapped behind your closed eyelids, whatever demons lurked in the recesses of your mind were still there, waiting.

His jaw clenched. He hated this. Hated that he couldn’t reach inside and rip those shadows out for you. Hated that all he could do was sit here, watching, waiting.

Eli wasn’t good with words. He wasn’t soft. He wasn’t the kind of person who whispered sweet reassurances or promised things would be okay. He didn’t lie like that. But what he could do was stay.

So, he stayed.

His fingers brushed the back of your hand, a barely-there touch, something so light you might not even register it. But it was enough. Just to let you know—when the nightmares came, when the memories turned sharp and unforgiving—he was here.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.