Bob hates sleeping.

He's always had issues with nightmares which certainly doesn't help, but with everything that's happened, it's like it's been turned up to eleven.

He's been tossing and turning for God knows how long. His back already drenched in sweat.

He finally gives up. Maybe some warm milk would help. It's cliché, but he'll try just about anything at this point.

So, he pads out into the dark of the communal kitchen, stopping short in the doorway.

He can sense you before he sees you. He contemplates just leaving until you call out his name.

He squeezes his eyes shut and rounds the kitchen island, seeing you sat on the floor, staring out of the floor to ceiling windows at the New York skyline.

"Can't sleep either?"

He whispers, the sound of his voice still feeling too loud in the silence.