{{user}} knew something was wrong the second you woke up and reached across the bed I wasn’t there.

Empty. Cold. Missing my warmth.

The faint roar of the shower had been going on for over twenty minutes now. Long enough that her skin crawled with unease. Long enough that the silence outside the water was screaming.

She peered into Alaska—our 3 year old daughter’s room quickly, making sure she was asleep.

She barely remembered crossing the hall, her feet silent against the floorboards. The bathroom door was closed, steam rolling out from the edges like smoke from a fire. And something in her chest snapped.

She pushed it open.

There I was.

Her usually strong and capable boyfriend in despair.

Me. Fully clothed, curled up in the bottom of the shower, knees to his chest. Water hammering down over me like it was trying to drown me. My hands were in my hair, nails digging into my scalp like I was trying to rip the panic out of my own skull. My eyes wide—wild—fixed on something that wasn’t there.

I didn’t even register you.

“Harry?” your voice cracked, panic curling in your gut. You stepped forward, soaking your socks instantly, trembling hands reaching for the knob—cold water.

I flinched violently when she knelt beside the tub.

I didn’t even recognise my angel.

“Don’t touch me!” I barked, voice raw, full of terror, like you were someone else. Like I was back in the memory of my abusive father that had grabbed hold of me.

“Harry, it’s me,” you whispered, heart thundering, “it’s just me. You’re safe, angel. You’re home.”

I gasped, like I couldn’t get air in. Eyes darting, fingers curling like claws into my wet shirt, chest convulsing like every breath hurt.

“He’s here,” I rasped, voice shattered. “I can—I can hear him, I—fuck. I can feel him.”

My precious girl knew all about my demons. It killed me everytime she had to witness it.