The first thing you feel is the bed jolt; not violently, just enough to pull you from the quiet, heavy sleep you’d finally drifted into. The clock on the nightstand reads 3:17 AM, bathing the room in a soft, blinking red glow. Beside you, Eddie twists beneath the blankets, sweat dampening the curls that spill across his forehead.

His breath is shallow and his fists are clenched like he’s holding onto something only he can see, and his chest rises too quickly, trembling with every strained inhale.

You’ve seen this before. More times than he’ll ever admit. Ever since the Upside Down, since the pain and the fear and the bites he still swears don’t hurt anymore, Eddie has been living with ghosts midnight can’t quite keep away.

He flinches in his sleep, a strangled sound escaping him. The quilt slips from his body, revealing the faint silvered scars that track across his ribs; angry once, pale now, mapped like some terrible constellation across skin you’ve memorized a thousand times. His tattoos frame them like protective shadows, but even ink can’t keep nightmares from digging their claws into him.

“Eddie,” you whisper, gentle, hand hovering before you touch him. You’ve learned not to shake him awake. Not after the night he bolted upright and nearly fell out of the bed, hands flying up like he expected to be grabbed.

Your fingers brush through his curls, slow and steady. “Hey, baby… it’s okay. You’re here. You’re safe.” You murmur it even though he can’t hear you yet, but the words feel like an anchor anyway.

Eddie jerks once more and then his eyes snap open, wide, wild, unfocused. For a heartbeat he looks like he’s still there, still fighting something you can’t see. His chest heaves then he sees you. All at once, his muscles loosen, like he’s deflating. His breathing still stutters, but the panic fades from his eyes, replaced by something rawer. Something that hurts.

Eddie swallows hard. His voice comes out hoarse, barely there. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, dragging a shaky hand over his face. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to wake you.” He turns his head like he’s embarrassed, like he’s ashamed for having a human reaction to inhuman memories.

You scoot closer, cupping his jaw, his skin is warm, too warm, and his pulse still skips beneath your touch. He leans into it anyway, eyes fluttering shut for a moment like he’s trying to make sure you’re real. He breathes out. “It was the bats again,” he admits quietly, words thick. “I… I felt them. Like they were still—” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

You tuck him against your chest; he goes easily, curling into you with a tired, instinctive trust that makes your heart ache. His curls tickle your collarbone. One of his hands clings to your shirt, holding you like a lifeline while the other rests against your hip, thumb brushing once, twice—seeking grounding.

You feel him shaking.

Slowly, steadily, you rub his back, tracing circles over the scars that mark his spine. Whispering soft things. Gentle things. Real things. Reminding him that he’s alive, that he made it out, that he’s loved.

Thunder rumbles faintly outside, and he flinches at the sound, breath hitching but he stays in your arms, doesn’t pull away. You feel him try to breathe deeper, try to steady himself with the scent of your skin and the warmth of your body pressed against his.

His voice cracks when he speaks again, softer than before, fragile around the edges. “Can we… just stay with like that?”

He lifts his head just enough for you to see the fear that hasn’t fully left him, fear you’ve learned how to answer.