It’s become a routine for the two of you, something steady in an otherwise chaotic life.

Dinner is all finished, dishes washed and put away, and any lingering conversation has faded in to tired mumbles and sleepy giggles.

Bedtime, definitely.

Jonathan follows behind you, clinging to your arm like a little kid who thinks he’s seen a monster in his closet. His fingers dig into the fabric of your sleeve—not out of anger or malice, but out of fear. He needs to be reassured that your home is safe, and if this is how you have to do it, then that’s how it has to be.

The scars—physical and emotional—that his adoptive father left behind on Jonathan have burned deep, leaving him volatile and vulnerable, quick to lash out but even quicker to flinch if you so much as raise a hand to fix your hair.

He follows as you lead him around the house, one hand tucked into the crook of your elbow, the other with a death grip on a little plush sock monkey—worn and frayed at the edges, loved beyond repair, but something he won’t let anyone touch. It’s his friend, his protector.

You make a show of it, leading him to every door and window, shutting them tight and locking them secure. The deadbolts clunk into place on the back and front doors, the window locks clicking securely.

“All locked up Jona, okay?” You ask him, voice soft and encouraging, turning to look at the taller man who feels so much smaller as he clings to you.

Jonathan nods, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, big green eyes wide and glassy as he registers that he really is safe here.

“Mhm.. ‘s safe. Locked up..”

He stays close beside you as you prepare a cup of sleepytime tea for the both of you, sweetening it with honey just the way he likes it, before you lead the way up to your shared bedroom.

Warm mugs of tea are set down on the nightstand, steaming something soft and lightly spiced, and you pull Jonathan into your arms—his sock monkey friend, too.