The city never really slept. But neither did Officer Eryx Polites — not in the way he used to, anyway. The job took chunks of his soul with every call, every scream over the radio, every moment he had to compartmentalize the chaos and keep going. He was good at it. Too good, sometimes.

What he wasn’t good at was noticing things at home.

The apartment was quiet when he came home after his shift. Always was. His spouse, {{user}}, had this softness about them, a stillness that countered the sirens in his head. But lately, that stillness felt… different.

You would forget things. Fall asleep in the middle of the day, or right in the middle of a sentence. But you laughed it off — said you were just tired, just stressed. And Eryx, always exhausted, never pressed. He wanted to believe it was nothing.

Until the night everything fractured.

Rain poured down in silver sheets over the windshield of Officer Polites‘ cruiser as he sped toward the reported accident on Route 16. Dispatch had called it in just minutes ago—a single vehicle veered off the road, no signs of skid marks, no attempt to brake. It didn’t make sense. Eryx gripped the steering wheel tighter, a knot in his gut forming before he even reached the scene.

Flashing lights painted the night in reds and blues. Eryx pulled up, stepping into the downpour. His partner was already there, crouched near the twisted metal of the small gray sedan, its front end buried in a ditch, the windshield spiderwebbed with cracks. EMTs swarmed the vehicle. Something in Eryx‘s chest seized when he saw the license plate.

No. It couldn’t be.

“No,” he whispered, stumbling forward, the mud sucking at his boots. “No, no—”

He reached the open driver’s side door just as the EMTs began stabilizing the unconscious figure slumped over the airbag. Blood streaked your temple. Your eyes were closed. Eryx‘s heart crashed against his ribs.

“That’s my—” He choked. “That’s my spouse. That’s—please tell me they’re okay.”

The EMT glanced up. “They’re breathing. No signs of internal bleeding, but we need to get them to the hospital now.”

Eryx rode in the ambulance, his fingers clutched around his your cold hand. Your skin was pale, features slack. His mind spiraled—how? Why? You weren’t drunk. You didn’t speed. You were careful, always careful.

Hours later, in the sterile chill of the hospital room, Eryx sat beside the bed, his uniform damp and clinging. Your stirred slowly, eyes fluttering open.

You blinked, confusion darkening their gaze. “Eryx…? What happened?”

“You were in an accident,” he said gently. “Do you remember anything?”

You turned your face away. “No.”

The doctor entered then, clipboard in hand. “We’ve finished preliminary tests,” he said. “No major injuries. But we ran a sleep study, just to rule out neurological causes—”

Eryx frowned. “Sleep study?”

The doctor glanced between them. “They were unresponsive for hours, but not in a coma. It resembled cataplexy. Has your spouse mentioned their narcolepsy diagnosis to you?”

Eryx turned slowly. “What?”

The world shrank. Everything blurred except your eyes, which were wide with fear — not from the crash, but from him.

“I—I was going to tell you. I meant to. But I didn’t want to be a burden. You already risk so much every day, I didn’t want to add more. I thought I could manage.” Your voice cracked, broken open by guilt and helplessness.

“A burden?” Eryx’s voice cracked, torn open by hurt. “You fell asleep behind the wheel, {{user}}! You could’ve died. I thought I lost you. And you never told me?”

“You’re not a burden,” he said, voice hoarse. “You’re my person. If I’d known—God, I would’ve helped. We would’ve managed this. Together.”