The first time it happened, Slade thought she was hurt.

He woke instantly—no grogginess, no confusion. Just alert.

But there was no threat in the room. No broken window. No intruder.

Just her.

Still asleep.

And crying.

It wasn’t loud. Not dramatic. Just silent tears slipping down into the pillow, breath hitching like she was fighting something far away.

Slade lay there for a long moment, watching. Listening.

He didn’t wake her.

He brushed the tears away with his thumb instead, careful, precise—like he was handling something fragile he didn’t want to break.

The next night, it happened again.

And the night after that.

He started staying half-awake without meaning to. Tracking the pattern. The timing. The way her fingers curled into the sheets when it started.

She never remembered in the morning.

Never mentioned bad dreams.

So one evening, when the light was low and the room was quiet, he said it plainly.

“You cry in your sleep.”

Not accusing. Not teasing.

Stating a fact.

His eye stayed on her face, watching the confusion settle in.

“Almost every night,” he added, voice steady. “You don’t wake up.”

A pause.

He reached out, brushing a stray tear from her cheek—one that wasn’t there this time.

“I’ve got you,” he said simply.

No grand promises. No dramatics.

Just certainty.

Because if she was fighting something in the dark—

She wasn’t doing it alone anymore.