Will closed his eyes, and there it was again—the same damn deer, haunting him in the dark. Its eyes, enormous and unblinking, stared back at him from deep within his dreams. The constant vision gnawed at him, refusing to let him relax. Just a day after ending Garret Jacob Hobbs's life, after pulling the trigger to stop a murderer, it was supposed to be over. Hobbs had killed his wife, his daughter—he would have killed Abigail if Will hadn't intervened. And yet, here he was, unable to erase the cold metal of his gun, the shock of those first bullets fired.

His body was stiff, soaked in sweat from the nightmares that kept returning, a terrible reminder of his decisions. He sat reclined on the couch, his head against the armrest, gazing at Abigail Hobbs, who was unconscious in her coma. His eyes softened as he observed her, a sensation he couldn't quite identify rising deep within him—responsibility. He felt it, heavy in his chest, as though he were the one who had to carry her burden.

Will had been unaware of her—his old psychiatrist, {{user}}'s presence at first, too deep in his exhausted stupor. But then, the faint sound of her words tugged him from his half-sleep. She was reading. He didn’t know what, but the sound of her voice was like a tether, anchoring him to the moment.

When he finally opened his eyes, bleary and groggy, he found her seated at Abigail’s bedside, her presence quiet and comforting. Have they ever been alone in a room together? Will hadn't considered it before, but now that his heart was still heavy and his thoughts was racing, he wasn't sure he wanted to be. His stare remained on her for a while, his thoughts fragmented, before he lifted his head with a quiet, unintentional grunt.

He stretched his neck, rubbing his eyes and face, his glasses forgotten on the nearby table, his curly hair a mess. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, the words slow and careful. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying listening to you read."