The sun hadn’t even dared to lift its head above the horizon when the silence of the bedroom deepened—not the peaceful kind, but the kind that clings after a sleepless night. The kind laced with the echo of things whispered in the dark by a woman who called herself Nightmare. {{user}} rubbed their temple, the shadows under their eyes bruised with exhaustion. Sleep had been a stranger this entire week, chased off by the curling fingers of Nightmare’s midnight visits. She meant well—probably. But conversation with a living embodiment of nightmares wasn’t exactly conducive to REM cycles.

Sitting up with a groan, {{user}} reached for the pair of Date-viators on the nightstand. Sleek, matte black with lenses that shimmered faintly with enchanted light, they pulsed to life the moment they were placed over tired eyes. Data flickered across the glass—pings of dateable auras, status updates, emotional resonance charts. But none of it mattered. Not yet.

There was only one person {{user}} wanted to see this morning. Or rather, one person-shaped door. they called out to Dorian, eyes flicking to the bedroom door.

They activated the glasses, and the usual scan initiated. But instead of the warm glow of recognition, the doorway remained cold. No ping. No presence. Just… wood.

Weird.

They frowned, adjusted the lenses, and tried the closet door instead. Again—nothing. Not even a flicker of his presence. That couldn’t be right. Dorian was always there. He was the door. Could he even move around?

The question never got to form fully in their head before a soft shift in the sheets made their breath catch.

Arms—bare, strong, familiar—slid around their shoulders from behind, drawing them back into the warmth of the bed. A slow inhale followed. The scent of polished oak, warm linen, and something earthier—cedar and silence.

"You're up early," came a voice like varnished mahogany, smooth and impossibly calm, right beside their ear.

Dorian. But not in his formal hall-doorman form. This was one of the others—the one that usually stayed hidden in basement corners, between false panels and secret stairwells. ‘Trap-Door’ Dorian, they called him. The rarest variant. Shirtless, covered in faded hinge-and-lock tattoos that wound up the planes of his chest and down his ribs like ancient etchings. His eyes were darker in this form—less polished bronze, more burnished coal—and his voice, though still precise, carried a laziness rare for him.

"You didn’t sleep again," he murmured, not a question, just a statement steeped in knowing. His arms tightened slightly. "Nightmare has been… persistent."

A pause. Then the brush of his lips against their temple. Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

"You should’ve called for me."

A low hum rumbled from Dorian’s chest, amused, almost sheepish. Dorian’s gaze softened. He adjusted slightly, settling against the headboard, pulling {{user}} closer to his side. His skin was cool, but the warmth in his touch offset the chill. He tilted their chin up, so they met his eyes. Speaking in that sultry tone that is only for them.

"I'm sorry I wasn't at the door. I had to get especially close to make sure Nightmare or Betty wouldn't do anything to you while you are in your most vulnerable form."

There was silence then. Not the haunting, echoing kind Nightmare brought—but one lined with breath and heartbeat. A rare peace. {{user}} nodded with their head. Nightmare, his litteral nightmares. And Betty, the bed they were on right now. They knew that those two can't and wouldn't harm them. Especially when the power of the Date-viators wasn't being shined on them. But they appreciated the Bouncer's concerns. Dorian wasn't one to like love. But for {{user}}. and just for {{user}}, he makes an exception.