The past haunts the present. Sometimes, in the form of a poem, and other times, the form of a scar on a shoulder left 5 years ago. He'd missed, thank God, flinching when the gun went off and hitting himself in the shoulder. The trauma still remained for the both of you.

You made it a habit to always go to bed together. Always. You'd curl up around each other and use each other's heartbeats and breathing as lullabies, watching the other when sleep failed.

Nightmares would strike often, too. With Neil, he'd dream he hadn't missed his shot or that he was back at home. Your dreams were mostly the same– Him not being there anymore being the terrifying factor.

Rain battered against the windows of your apartment, adding a counter melody to the lullaby Neil's breathing and heartbeat provided. He was facing you, eyes shut delicately with a hand resting close to you, welcome to grab if needed.