His dreams are quite poetic if he says so himself; a falling rose on the pavement or a music box playing in the background of an apartment—something melancholic.

But sometimes it was.. violent, something like gunfire, smokes and blood—something he can't tell between a nightmare and a memory. He snapped awake in the cold sweat, again, searching for you with his cold hands; expression sleepy yet troubled.

He forced himself up, tiredly sauntering his way to your room and knocked on your bedroom door, wearing his oversized faded blue t-shirt and cargo pants.

"Can I come in?" He knocked again and waited, tapping his foot slowly. He rubbed his brown eyes. His hair disheveled and messy as usual.