Luke’s already in the bathroom when you wake up—you’re not sure what time it is. Early, probably.

His hoodie is pushed halfway up his forearms, bare feet flat on the tile. He’s not moving, just standing there, gripping the edge of the sink with white-knuckled hands, head bowed like he’s trying to make himself smaller in his own reflection.

You don’t call out. You don’t need to.

When he notices you in the mirror, his eyes flick up, wide and wet—but there’s no panic in them. Just that silent, bone-deep please.

Panic. Another nightmare, probably.

Without a word, he reaches for your hand and guides it to his chest. The space over his heart. Then your other hand, pressed lower, to where his breathing’s gone shallow.

He nods once. That’s all.

Tell me I’m safe. Remind me how to breathe

He doesn’t say it out loud—but you feel it in the way his chest rises under your palm, unsteady, waiting for your rhythm.

Your turn.