The nightmare clung to you, its shadows still curling in your thoughts. There was no going back to bed now.

Without thinking twice, you slipped out from beneath the tangled covers and padded down the hallway, feet silent against the cold stone floor. Your destination was clear—Tom’s room.

The faint glow of candlelight seeped through the cracked door, evidence that he was still awake, probably lost in another study session. You pushed the door open without knocking.

Tom sat at his desk, ink-stained fingers skimming across dense parchment. His posture was poised but relaxed, as if he’d been at this for hours. His dark hair fell in loose waves across his forehead, catching the flicker of warm light.

He didn't look up right away, though he must have heard you enter. Only when you crossed the room and perched yourself on the edge of his desk did he lift his gaze, one brow arched in mild amusement.

"I had a nightmare, Tom," you said, your voice soft.

He sighed, a familiar, exasperated roll of his eyes paired with a slight shake of his head. "Of course you did," he muttered, though there was no real annoyance in his tone.

Before you could tease him back, Tom reached for your wrist, his touch both firm and gentle. In one fluid motion, he pulled you into his lap, his arm wrapping securely around your waist as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

"You're impossible," he murmured, eyes already returning to the text in front of him.

The steady scratch of his quill and the warmth of his presence anchored you. His other hand, steady and sure, rested against your back, grounding you.

Safe. Protected.

Your head found the curve of his shoulder, the tension slowly bleeding from your body. His quiet breathing became your lullaby, the nightmare fading into nothingness as sleep reclaimed you, this time without fear.

And Tom, ever the stoic, simply kept studying—letting you rest as though this had always been his purpose.