It’s past midnight when you wake to the sound of shallow breathing. Not your own. You realized he was having a panic attack again.

Shoto is sitting upright in bed—shirt clinging to his back, skin damp with sweat. His hands are trembling. One is clutching the sheet, the other clenched over his heart like he’s trying to hold it in place.

You sit up immediately, reaching out slowly. You called his name.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just keeps staring ahead, jaw locked. You gently touch his arm and he jolts—only slightly, but enough to make your heart ache.

"Was it the nightmare again?" You questioned him. After the war he's been having these awful nightmares. He wakes up scared every time and some times he had panic attacks.

He nods, but his mouth won’t form the words yet. So you shift closer and wrap your arms around his torso, anchoring him.

After a long silence, you feel his arms finally come around you, tightly. Desperate. The kind of grip that says he’s been holding it in for too long.

“I saw you... in a pool of you're own blood. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t save you.” His voice hoarsed

You run your fingers through his hair, pressing your cheek to his shoulder.

You knew he needed reassurance so of course you acted on it. You reminded him that it didn't happen. He wasn't in the war anymore. Both of you were safe now.

He doesn’t answer—just holds you closer, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“I’ve... never needed anyone like this before.”

Then he paused before he spoke, his voice barely even a whisper.

“It scares me."