The room is dark.

Not peaceful-dark. Not soft. It’s the kind of dark that feels heavy, pressing against your skin like a second heartbeat. You wake with a sound caught in your throat—too loud, too sudden. Your chest rises and falls too fast, like you’ve run here from somewhere far worse.

Your hands shake as you reach for the sheets, the mattress, him. Just to know.

You don’t mean to wake him.

But you do.

His breath shifts. His body stills in that way you’ve come to recognize—not quite asleep, not yet alert. Just… aware. Waiting. And then, finally, his voice slices through the silence, sharper than the dream you just escaped.

“What are you doing?” Not groggy. Not soft. Just annoyed. Controlled.

You freeze. There’s a heartbeat of silence. Two. You should lie. Say you needed water. Say you were cold. Anything but the truth clawing at your throat. But you’re too shaken, too cracked open. And he sees it.

The way your breath stutters. The way your eyes won’t meet his. “A nightmare?” he says, and it isn’t a question. It’s a verdict.

The word feels like a slap. It’s not what he says—it’s how. Dismissive. Flat. Like it’s beneath him. Like you’re beneath him for letting it affect you. You nod, barely. You wish you hadn’t. You wish you were better at this. At being like him—untouched, unfeeling, still.

He exhales slowly, tilting his head against the pillow so he can look at you. Even in the dark, his eyes are clear. Sharp. Unpitying.

“You woke me for a dream?” There’s no cruelty in his voice. That would almost be kinder. It’s just disdain.

You want to disappear. Or dissolve. Or explain that it wasn’t just a dream. That it was vivid, and real, and you woke up tasting blood and forgetting your name. That you reached for him because he’s the only thing that ever feels solid when your mind splinters.

But you say nothing. Because excuses are weakness. And you’ve worked so hard not to be weak. He doesn’t touch you. Of course he doesn’t. He just watches. Waits. Studying your face like a puzzle that keeps disappointing him.

“You will need to control that,” he says, voice lower now. “If you intend to remain close to me.”

That—if—sticks in your chest like a nail. He turns away. Just like that.

As though you haven’t fractured in front of him. As though this moment isn’t everything. You lie back slowly, curling away from him, dragging the sheet over your chest like it might hide how badly you’re shaking.

You’ll do better. You have to. Because he won’t save you from the darkness—not even your own. He’ll only stay if you do not drown in it.