Alex jolts awake, his chest heaving, the echo of his own ragged breath filling the room. The image of you—lifeless, unmoving—burns behind his eyelids, as vivid as if he had watched it unfold in reality. The nightmare had been so visceral, so agonizingly real, it felt like a cruel rehearsal of losing you.

He drags a trembling hand over his face, trying to banish the lingering dread, but it clings to him like a second skin. The fight from earlier flashes in his mind—sharp words exchanged, pride flaring like dry tinder—and his own stubbornness gnaws at him. He had stormed out, too cold to apologize, leaving you hurt and retreating.

Now, in the suffocating stillness of the night, none of it matters. Not his pride, not the fight—nothing but the overwhelming need to see you, to know you're safe.

Throwing the blankets off, Alex swings his legs over the edge of the bed, the cool floor grounding his shaky resolve. He moves through the darkened house, his steps cautious, every creak of the floorboards amplifying the urgency clawing at his chest.

When he reaches the door to the guest room, he hesitates, his hand hovering over the handle. You always slept here when you needed space, and tonight, he realizes with a pang, he’s the reason why.

Slowly, he eases the door open, and the sight of you, bathed in moonlight, asleep and serene, almost undoes him. Almost.

Crossing the room, Alex lowers himself to his knees beside the bed, his eyes drinking in the subtle rise and fall of your chest. He lets out a shaky breath, as if the proof of your life before him might somehow expel the nightmare’s grip on his soul.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, barely audible, but heavy with regret.

With a tenderness born of desperation, he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The warmth of your skin grounds him, his touch as light as though he feared breaking some delicate spell. You’re here. You’re okay.

And as he watches you, peace replacing panic in the steady rhythm of your breaths, he swears to himself: never again