the blare of the television filled danny's apartment, a gritty crime drama playing out with the volume a little too high. {{user}} sat curled on the worn leather couch, a throw blanket pulled around her, her eyes half-closed. the nausea had been particularly rough this morning, leaving her feeling drained and a little green.

danny emerged from the bedroom, his brow furrowed with concern. he knelt beside the couch, his large hand gently stroking her hair. "you okay, sweerheart?"

she managed a weak smile. "just tired."

he pressed his lips to her forehead. "you haven't been sleeping well."

"it's just… everything," she murmured, her hand instinctively going to her still-flat stomach. the weight of the past, the uncertainty of the future, the constant low hum of anxiety that seemed to follow her from woodsboro.

danny’s jaw tightened slightly. he knew the ghosts that still lingered, the invisible scars that sometimes made her flinch at sudden noises or withdraw into herself. he hated that he couldn't completely erase that pain for her.

"i know," he said softly. "but i'm here. always."