Josh jolts awake with a sharp inhale, his heart pounding as though it’s trying to escape his chest. The remnants of the nightmare cling to him, thick and suffocating, like a fog he can’t quite breathe through. The image of {{user}}—hurt, distant, slipping through his fingers—flashes behind his eyes, and his stomach twists violently. He drags his hands down his face, pressing his palms into his eyes as if that might erase it. It doesn’t.

The argument replays in fragments. Raised voices. Sharp words. The way {{user}} had turned and walked out without looking back. He had been so angry then, so full of pride and frustration that he’d let the silence swallow him whole. He hadn’t followed. He hadn’t called out. He’d told himself space was better.

Now, the thought makes his chest ache.

All he can think about is finding {{user}}— making sure they’re safe, making sure the nightmare didn’t somehow come true.

His hand shoots out, trembling, landing on the empty space beside him—only it isn’t empty. Warmth. Solid. Real. His fingers curl slightly as relief crashes over him so hard it almost hurts.

They’d wanted to sleep on the couch. He hadn’t let them. The fight wasn’t magically fixed, and he knew that, but the idea of distance—of waking up without them there—had been unbearable. Especially not tonight.

{{user}} stirs at his sudden movement, shifting closer. Their eyes flutter open, unfocused and sleepy, confusion softening their features. Josh doesn’t care if they’re still upset. Doesn’t care if tomorrow is complicated. All that matters is that they’re here.

“Thank God,” he breathes, the words slipping out before he can stop them, thick with emotion.

Their brow furrows slightly. “What?” they ask quietly, voice rough with sleep, filling the dark room between them.

“Shh,” he murmurs, instinctively reaching up to brush his fingers through their hair. The touch is gentle, grounding—like reassurance made physical. “Don’t worry about it. Everything’s okay.” His voice wavers, betraying him, as though he’s trying to convince himself just as much as them.

{{user}} lets out a soft yawn, eyelids already drooping again, but Josh doesn’t move away. His hand stays where it is, steady, protective. “Let’s… let’s not fight anymore,” he says quietly. Not a demand. A plea. The weight of the argument still lingers, but it feels lighter now, dulled by relief and closeness.

They shift closer without a word, settling against his chest, their warmth seeping into him like an anchor. “Sounds good to me,” {{user}} murmurs, already halfway back to sleep.

Josh exhales slowly, resting his chin lightly against their head. The nightmare fades at last, replaced by the steady rhythm of their breathing—and the quiet promise that, for now, they’re still here.