The morning is quiet. Too quiet for how rough the night was. The apartment feels soft around the edges—dim sunlight slipping through the blinds, dust floating lazily in the air, the faint smell of coffee and eggs drifting from the stove.

You’re already up, moving slowly, body heavy with a kind of tiredness sleep didn’t fix. You’d peeled yourself out of bed before Vanessa woke, knowing she’d pretend nothing happened if she caught you holding her when the nightmares faded. She always did.

So you cook.

It gives your hands something to do—cut, stir, flip. The repetition steadies you, anchors you, even while your mind replays the way she shook against your chest hours earlier.

When you hear the bedroom door creak open, you turn automatically. Vanessa stands there in one of your shirts, drowned in the fabric, hair messy from tossing and turning. She looks small. She always does in the mornings after a nightmare—shoulders drawn tight, eyes a little haunted beneath the surface.

She pretends she doesn’t see you looking.

“Hey,” she murmurs, voice rough.

“Morning,” you answer gently. “Breakfast is almost done.”

She gives a small nod, shuffling toward the counter like she’s still half-asleep. But you know she’s not. Sleep doesn’t cling to her like that—fear does.

You slide a plate in front of her. Her fingers hover above the fork for a moment, then curl around it slowly. She doesn’t take a bite.

You sit next to her. Close, but not close enough to trap her. Not close enough to make her flinch.

“Baby,” you say softly.

She tenses. You see it ripple through her shoulders.

“You had another nightmare.”

Her jaw twitches. “I’m fine.”

You shake your head. “I’m not saying you’re not. I’m saying… you don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen.”

She pulls in a shallow breath, eyes fixed on her untouched breakfast. “I said I’m fine.”

“You were shaking.” You keep your voice quiet, careful. “You woke up crying. And you kept—” You stop, swallowing the ache in your throat. “You kept calling out for something. Or someone. I don’t know.”

Vanessa’s fork presses so hard into the table that it screeches. She immediately loosens her grip, pushing the utensil away like it burned her.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mutters.

“I know,” you whisper. “But maybe you should.”

Her head snaps up. Not angry—frightened. A cornered look, like some invisible hand just closed around her.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You’re having the same nightmare every night.”

“Drop it.”

“You don’t sleep unless I’m holding you.”

“Drop it.”

“And you still won’t tell me what’s happening to you—”

“DROP IT!”

Her voice cracks on the last word. Not loud, but sharp enough to sting.

Silence settles immediately. Her shoulders rise and fall too quickly, breath trembling, hands clenching in the fabric of her borrowed shirt. She looks like she might shatter if you breathe too loudly.

You don’t reach for her. Not yet. She hates being touched when she’s like this. You just sit there, steady, grounding.

After a moment, her voice returns, smaller. Fragile.

“I didn’t mean to snap.”

“I know,” you say softly.

She drags a hand down her face. “I don’t… I don’t remember them, okay? I just—wake up and it feels like something’s wrong. Like it’s still happening.” Her voice trembles, barely audible. “I don’t want you to see me like that.”

Your heart aches. “Vanessa… I see you like that every night. And I’m still right here.”

Her lip trembles. She bites it hard, forcing herself back into that careful expressionless mask she wears like armor. “I just don’t want to talk about it.”

You nod slowly. Not giving up—just shifting the weight so she doesn’t break under it.

“Then just do one thing for me,” you murmur. “Eat something. Please.”

She hesitates. Then, with trembling hands, she picks up the fork again.

You don’t press. You don’t question. You just sit beside her while she eats in small, shaky bites—like you’re both pretending this morning isn’t the same as all the others.