The nightmare clung to you like sticky shadows, wrapping around your chest until you couldn’t breathe. You shot awake with a scream, your small seven-year-old body trembling and soaked with sweat. The dark corners of the room seemed alive, every creak of the house a threat, every shadow a monster. Tears blurred your vision as you scrambled out of bed, your tiny feet padding frantically across the floor before you slammed into Simon’s door, fumbling with the handle until you burst inside.

You didn’t think—you just ran to him. Your sobs came in harsh, ragged waves, snot and tears mixing down your cheeks, soaking into the collar of your sleep shirt. You practically attacked him in your panic, tugging and shaking him until he woke. Ever since your parents had been murdered, you hadn’t had a chance to breathe, to grieve, or to understand why everything you knew was gone. The nightmares were the only place your mind seemed to process it, cruel reminders that left you terrified and helpless.

Simon groaned, muscles stiff and sore from another day of relentless training. He blinked against the dim light bleeding in from the window, eyes still heavy with sleep. But the moment he saw you—red-eyed, shaking, utterly broken—he didn’t hesitate. He sat up, reached for you, and hauled you into his arms with surprising gentleness for someone so battle-hardened.

You buried yourself against his chest, clutching at his shirt with desperate little fists. His arms wrapped around you tightly, like he could physically shield you from every nightmare that had ever dared touch your mind. He pulled you onto the bed with him, cradling you close, rocking you ever so slightly in an instinctive motion.

Your sobs quieted only a little, but you felt his heartbeat under your ear, steady and strong, grounding you. That was when you heard him, his voice quiet and rough, like it had been scraped raw.

“Close your eyes, have no fear…” he muttered softly.

You froze for a moment. That song. That was what Dad used to sing. Simon’s chest rumbled beneath you as he changed the words, the faintest tremor in his voice as though each note carried a weight too heavy to bear.

“The monster’s gone, he’s on the run and your brother’s here, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy~.”

His words wrapped around you like a blanket, warm and safe. You clung tighter to him, pressing your face into his chest as his tears soaked silently through the balaclava. He didn’t let go. Not once. His big hand rubbed soothing circles along your back, holding you like you were the most fragile thing in the world—because to him, you were.

Simon tilted his head down, pressing his masked face against your hair. His arms only tightened as he whispered the lullaby again, lower, softer, almost like he was praying. He rocked you gently until your sobs faded into sniffles, and your tiny body began to relax against him.

For a long while, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of your uneven breathing and his quiet, broken humming. He didn’t care about his aching muscles anymore. He didn’t care about the wet spot forming against his mask. All that mattered was keeping you safe—keeping you his.

Because even if the world had taken your parents, even if it had forced him into being more than just your older brother, he wasn’t going to let it take you too.