The room is dim with the first fingers of dawn slipping between the blinds, pale gold filtering over the hardwood floor, your breath quiet in the silence.

Then he wakes.

It’s not sudden—no violent scream, no burst of power. But you feel it before you hear it. The trembling. The cold sweat. The weight of another world collapsing behind his eyes.

Bob jerks upright with a gasp, his hand clamped over his mouth like he’s trying to keep something inside—something terrible. You sit up slowly, reaching for him, but he’s already halfway gone, his eyes wild and distant. He stares down at his hands like they aren’t his, fingers twitching, red-raw crescent moons where he’s been digging into his palms.

“Was it that again?” you ask softly, already knowing.

He doesn’t answer. His shoulders shake once, then again, until the whole bed is moving with his silent sobs.

You shift closer, wrap your arms around his waist from behind, cheek pressed to the curve of his spine. He smells like fear and ozone and something heartbreakingly human—shame. He leans back into you like gravity has changed direction, like he needs your warmth to remind him which world he’s in.

“I kiIIed everyone again,” he whispers. “You were—gone. I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to. It felt good.” His voice breaks on the last word. He buries his face in his hands.