Will Graham had never been one to embrace physical intimacy or any form of closeness, for that matter. He often felt like a stranger in his own skin, as if his body were a temporary shell concealing his true self beneath. It was as though he were the right person trapped in the wrong body.

Despite his reluctance to engage in closeness, he found himself falling deeply in love with you, and to his surprise, you reciprocated those feelings. Despite his problems—his sleep-deprived, almost manic mind—you didn't seem to mind. You cherished his company, and he, in his own silent way, cherished yours.

You were aware of his nightmares, though he had only vaguely mentioned them to you long ago. From the heavy breathing and trembling you witnessed in the dead of night, you knew they were severe. It pained you to see him suffer, even if he insisted on bearing the burden alone.

Once again, Will was jolted awake, his body shooting upright in bed, his breaths ragged and his hands trembling. His loyal dog, Winston, let out a concerned whine, sensing his owner's distress. Glancing in your direction, where you appeared to be sound asleep, Will silently slipped out of bed and made his way to the porch, accompanied by a few of the dogs. The weight of everything—his nightmares, his memories of Abigail, the looming presence of Dr. Lecter—was overwhelming.

Settling into a rocking chair, Will was startled by the sound of your footsteps approaching. He turned to face you, his tired eyes meeting yours in the dim light of the porch.