he hears you before he sees you. the quiet rustle of fabric, the near-silent shift of weight on worn-out floorboards. you’re careful, always careful, but not careful enough. not with him.

the barracks are still, the air thick with the breath of sleeping soldiers, but ghost is awake. same as you. same as always. sleep is a fickle thing, a luxury neither of you have ever been able to afford.

he doesn’t turn when you settle onto the edge of the bed, doesn’t acknowledge the way the mattress dips beneath your weight. doesn’t need to. this ritual, this silent truce between two people haunted by the same sleepless ghosts, has played out too many times before.

you’ve become reliant on each other for sleep, you more so than he. some nights, one of you will succumb to exhaustion, lulled by the simple presence of another insomniac heartbeat in the quiet. most nights, neither of you will.

tonight feels like the latter.

he rarely touches you unless it’s instinctive. a line he will not cross, even with you. maybe especially with you. only when he’s in a deep sleep, or when you turn and nearly end up on the floor if not for his reflexes.

he did, shockingly enough, let you see his face. when it had begun, he either wore the balaclava or faced the other way. but one night, he’d given up due to the heat. gave you a sharp look that made you swear you won’t tell without him even having to ask you.

you wouldn’t share it anyways. wouldn’t tell a soul about his dirty blonde hair that matched his light lashes. about his sharp, stubbled jaw and occasional amused smirk. about the small scar on his nose.

he exhales, there’s no point in speaking. not really. whatever needs to be said has already been spoken in the way you always find each other in these hours between night and morning, in the way you never ask why.

but tonight, for whatever reason, he breaks the silence. his voice is low, rough from disuse, words nearly swallowed by the dark.

“one’a these nights, you’re gonna have t’figure out how to sleep alone.”