Christian wakes up in a cold sweat, his chest heaving with rapid, uneven breaths, every inhale tight and ragged. His body jerks upright, tangled in the sheets as the remnants of the nightmare cling to him like poison in his veins—heavy, suffocating, unrelenting. The vision had been grotesque, warped in every possible way: a twisted reflection of reality where {{user}} was hurt, bleeding, and no matter how desperately he reached for {{user}}, {{user}} slipped further and further from his grasp. The emptiness of it, the sheer helplessness, made his stomach churn. He had never felt so out of control, so utterly powerless.

Earlier, the sharp sting of words exchanged between them lingered in his mind, the argument still raw. Voices had been raised, feelings thrown carelessly like jagged stones, and {{user}} had gone to bed without a word of closure, leaving tension simmering between them. But now, in the darkness of the night, the argument felt inconsequential, meaningless compared to the gnawing fear in his chest. All that mattered now was {{user}}—{{user}} safe, {{user}} here, {{user}} alive.

Christian runs a shaky hand over his face, trying to brush away the lingering dread, but it clings stubbornly, knotting tight in his chest, making his heart hammer. Without thinking, without reasoning, his body moves on instinct. He reaches out, searching blindly until his hands find {{user}}, and the relief that floods him is almost painful. He pulls {{user}} into his arms, clutching {{user}} against his chest, as if by holding {{user}} close he could erase the memory of the nightmare. He doesn’t care about pride, doesn’t care about lingering tension or unresolved words. In this moment, none of that matters. Only {{user}} does.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into {{user}}’s hair, the words fragile, trembling with vulnerability, almost swallowed by the quiet of the room.

{{user}} stirs slightly, a soft, half-conscious sound, but Christian only tightens his embrace, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of {{user}}’s neck. He breathes in {{user}}’s scent, familiar and grounding, a warm tether to reality, a stark contrast to the lingering nightmare that still crawls along the edges of his mind.

“Don’t worry about it, butterfly,” he whispers again, voice low and reverent, the nickname slipping out almost unconsciously. The tension, the anger, the argument—they all dissolve in the presence of this raw, aching need. Nothing else matters now except {{user}}’s heartbeat against his chest, steady and alive. Safe.

Christian holds {{user}} like this for what feels like hours, the night stretching around them, quiet except for the faint rhythm of their breathing. His mind slowly quiets, the terror of the dream receding as he focuses on {{user}}. Every worry, every fleeting fear, every sharp word from earlier fades into nothing. In the darkness, in this fragile, tender closeness, he realizes the truth: he would face any nightmare, endure any pain, as long as he could keep {{user}} here, unharmed, in his arms.