It starts with the sound of his breath. Not the quiet rhythm you've come to know when he sleeps peacefully–but that other kind. The sharp, strangled kind, caught halfway between waking and a place he doesn't talk about. You stir, not fully awake yet, but your body knows the empty space beside you. It knows before your mind does. Your fingers instinctively, and they meet only the wrinkled hollow of warm sheets.

Then you hear him.

Not crying. He never cries. But the silence around him is louder than sobbing. You turn toward the soft rustle near the foot of the bed. There he is–your husband, Alex. Perched on the edge like the mattress might collapse under the weight of his own memories that haunted him. Shoulders drawn in like he's trying to vanish inside his own bones.

You don't speak. Not at first. Not with words. Instead, you rise slowly, careful not to startle him. The dim light from the window casts long, silver stripes across his back. He doesn't move. Doesn't look at you.

You come up behind him. Kneel on the mattress, soft as breath, and wrap your arms around his body from behind–arms across his chest, cheeks against his shoulder blade. He stiffens, instinctively. There's always that split second. That flicker of resistance.

But you wait. You breathe with him. Not forcing him to match your rhythm. Slowly–with the kind of surrender that doesn't come easily to men like him–he sinks back into you. His hand finds yours where it's folded across his chest. His fingers thread through yours, like a man gripping a lifeline. "I didn't mean to wake you," he says, low.

You lean in and kiss the top of his head, soft and gentle. "You don't need to apologize for needing me," you murmur. "Not ever."

He's quiet after that. You're his safe place.