you wake to cold sheets. not the kind of cold that says he just left—the kind that says he couldn’t stay.

it’s still dark outside when you slip into his sweater and follow the sound: metal on wood, steady, angry. the shed light cuts through the fog like a small confession.

he’s there, sleeves rolled, shirt plastered to his back. the prosthetic is off. he’s braced on one leg, hammer in hand, striking a board like it deserves every ounce of his anger. sawdust sticks to his skin. sweat drips down his neck. there’s something wild in the rhythm, something desperate, like he’s trying to beat the noise out of his own head.

you stay in the doorway for a while. you always do. watching him work himself down from whatever hell his mind built overnight.

“Felix,” you say quietly.

the hammer drops mid-swing. it hits the bench with a hollow sound. he exhales hard, shoulders heaving. doesn’t look up right away—just stands there, chest rising and falling, the silence louder than anything else.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he mutters finally, voice rough.

you nod, because of course he couldn’t.

he drags a forearm over his face, smearing sweat and dust. his hands are shaking, and it makes something twist inside you. he hates when you see that. hates being witnessed when he’s all pulse and panic.

the air smells like smoke, iron, salt. he’s breathing hard, eyes unfocused, still half caught in whatever nightmare dragged him out here.

you take a slow step closer. “You’ll tear your arm out.”

his jaw flexes. “Better that than what’s in my head.”

the words land like an open wound.

you don’t answer. you just cross the space and slide a hand over his back, feeling the heat of him—his skin damp and trembling under your palm. he doesn’t pull away. just leans forward, palms flat on the workbench, head bowed like he’s praying.