He jerks awake with a strangled breath, lungs burning as if he’s been running for miles instead of lying still in the dark. The nightmare clings to him, thick and suffocating, its shadows still curled around his ribs. For a moment he doesn’t know where he is—only that the image of you—{{user}}—broken, bleeding, reaching for him with trembling hands—won’t release its hold.

Your voice echoes in his skull. Thin. Fading. Calling his name.

His fists clench against the sheets, knuckles whitening as he tries to ground himself in the present. The room is silent. Whole. Intact. No smoke. No blood. No desperate cries.

But the fear doesn’t loosen.

Earlier, he’d been angry. Stubborn. The argument had flared too quickly, too hot—words sharpened by pride and hurt. You’d walked away first, jaw set, eyes bright with emotion you refused to let spill. And he’d let you go.

That’s what haunts him most.

He’d stayed where he was, letting ego chain him in place. Told himself you needed space. Told himself you’d both cool off by morning.

Now the thought makes him sick.

Because in the dream, he hadn’t reached you in time.

The sheets are already pushed aside before he consciously decides to move. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with quiet urgency. The hallway beyond his room feels too long, too dim. Every step echoes with the memory of your voice breaking, of your hands slipping from his grasp.

He reaches your door and stops.

The wood is cool beneath his forehead when he leans against it, eyes squeezing shut. He tries to steady his breathing, tries to swallow down the panic clawing up his throat. It was just a dream. Just his guilt twisting itself into something monstrous.

But the need to see you—to touch you, to hear you breathe—is overwhelming. It drowns reason.

He doesn’t knock.

He eases the door open slowly, carefully, as if afraid the nightmare might still be waiting on the other side. The room is bathed in soft moonlight, silver spilling across the floor and climbing the edge of your bed.

And there you are.

{{user}}. Whole. Safe. Curled beneath the blankets, breathing slow and steady.

The sight hits him like a collapsing wave.

Relief rushes through him so fast his knees nearly give out. His chest aches with it—sharp, humbling, almost painful in its intensity. He steps inside and closes the door behind him with a soft click, as though guarding you from something unseen.

He crosses the room quietly and lowers himself beside your bed, kneeling as if in prayer.

For a moment, he just watches you. The rise and fall of your chest. The faint crease between your brows even in sleep. The way your hand rests half-curled against the pillow.

His fingers tremble when he reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. The touch is featherlight, reverent. You stir slightly, shifting toward the warmth without fully waking.

He exhales a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice rough with unshed emotion. It barely carries in the quiet room, but the words feel heavy enough to shake the walls. “I shouldn’t have let you walk away. I shouldn’t have let us end the night like that.”

His thumb grazes your cheek, slow and careful, as if reassuring himself you’re real.

“I was angry. And I was wrong.” The admission costs him, but he doesn’t hesitate. “You matter more than my pride ever will.”

He leans closer, resting his forehead gently against the edge of the mattress near your hand. Close enough to feel your warmth. Close enough to breathe you in.

“You scared me,” he murmurs, softer now. “I thought I’d lost you.”

The nightmare still lingers at the edges of his mind, but it’s losing its power, unraveling in the face of your steady breathing.

“I promise,” he whispers into the quiet, voice firm despite the lingering tremor, “I won’t let you go to bed feeling alone again. Not because of me.”

His fingers curl gently around yours, careful not to wake you.

And this time, he stays.