Anaxagoras rarely slept at his desk. The university corridor was quiet during break time, sunlight slanting through tall windows and stopping just short of his lecture notes. His head had dropped onto folded arms without warning, exhaustion finally winning.

That was when the nightmare came. Aglaea was there—his wife, his constant—standing too far away, her voice drowned by noise he couldn’t reach. Hands that were not his. A violation he could not stop. Time warped cruelly, leaping forward to a truth that made his chest burn: she was pregnant, and the child was not his.

He woke with a sharp gasp, breath uneven, fingers digging into the wood of his desk as if grounding himself in reality. His heart pounded violently, jealousy and horror twisting together until he felt sick.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Still, the feeling lingered.

Without explanation, he cancelled his afternoon lecture. His colleagues stared, confused—he never left early. But by the time the campus clock struck mid-afternoon, he was already driving home, gripping the steering wheel too tightly.

When he opened the door, the house was filled with quiet domestic warmth. Aglaea looked up from the kitchen, startled.

“Anaxagoras?” she said, surprised. “You’re home early.”

He stood there, frozen, eyes searching her face as if confirming she was unharmed, untouched, real. Relief hit him first—then guilt for the thoughts still clinging to his chest.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” he said softly.

She walked toward him, concern replacing surprise. He let her close, let himself breathe again, even as the shadow of the nightmare slowly loosened its grip—leaving behind only fear of losing what he loved most.

His eyes betrayed him.

When Anaxagoras looked at her—really looked—the nightmare surged back with brutal clarity. Her body, familiar and beloved, twisted in his mind into something tainted by a lie that had never happened. His jaw tightened. Jealousy flared hot and irrational, anger following close behind, sharp enough to make his hands tremble.

Aglaea noticed the change instantly.

“Anaxagoras…?” she murmured.

Before he could think, he closed the distance between them. One arm came around her waist, lifting her effortlessly, pressing her back against the wall—not violently, but with a sudden force that stole her breath. The sound of her back touching the surface snapped something inside him.

Her hands clutched at his coat, eyes wide—not afraid, just confused. Concern. Trust.

That was what broke him.

His grip loosened immediately. He leaned his forehead against the wall beside her head, breathing hard, voice rough and uneven.

“I had a nightmare,” he whispered.

Silence hung between them. Then Aglaea reached up, touching his wrist gently, grounding him.

“I’m here,” she said softly. “And nothing you saw was real.”

He let her slide back onto her feet, shame flooding in as quickly as the anger had come. He turned away, hands shaking—not from desire, but from fear of how deeply he loved her.