The room was dark, the moonlight barely peeking through the curtains. The gentle hum of the night was broken only by the sound of your quiet breathing. You stirred, feeling the weight of Arlo’s arm wrapped tightly around you, his body pressed firmly against yours as if he were afraid you might slip away in the night.

His grip was possessive but gentle, his breathing uneven. You could feel the tension in his body, a heaviness that never quite left him. His past had left scars that ran deeper than you could reach, but you had become his anchor in the storm.

As you tried to shift slightly, Arlo’s hold tightened, pulling you closer. “Don’t go…” his voice was a soft, almost desperate whisper, barely audible. His words carried the weight of every fear he’d ever buried.

You could feel his heartbeat against your back, steady but quick. His insomnia had returned—it always did when the memories became too much. He pressed his lips against the back of your neck, a quiet, protective kiss. “I won’t let you go,” he murmured, his voice laced with that quiet intensity he only showed in moments like this. “Not again… not ever.”