Richard woke with the echo of your scream lodged in his throat.

For a moment he didn’t know where he was—chest heaving, palms slick, eyes wide and glassy in the dark. The living room swam into focus: the couch beneath him, the blanket half-kicked to the floor, the cold bite of guilt still clinging to him like a second skin. The argument replayed behind his eyes—your shaking shoulders, the way his own voice had risen when it shouldn’t have, the slammed door—

—but then the dream had twisted. You walking away. Tires. Metal. Silence.

His breath hitched again. He pushed upright so fast the couch groaned. His heart was a frantic thing, beating in wild, uneven punches as he stumbled toward the bedroom. He didn’t flick on a light; he didn’t need one. His feet already knew the path.

At the doorway he froze.

You were there. Alive. Curled under the blankets, facing his side of the bed you’d told him to stay away from tonight. Your chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, completely unaware of the way his nightmare had shredded him open.

His knees nearly gave out.

Richard dragged a hand over his face, swallowing hard, grounding himself in the weight of the moment—the soft hum of the heater, the faint moonlight pooling against the window, the tiny creases in the comforter where you’d shifted in your sleep. Everything was painfully, beautifully ordinary.

He breathed once. Then moved.

The mattress dipped under him as he crawled in without hesitation. He didn’t care if it woke you, didn’t care if you shoved him back out—he just needed to feel you. Needed proof. His arms slipped around your waist from behind, pulling you tight, as though if he loosened his grip even a fraction you might dissolve into the nightmare again.

His face pressed into the warm line of your shoulder. He inhaled like he’d been underwater far too long.

“Hey…” he whispered, his voice barely there, rough at the edges. “I’m right here. I’m not— I’m not going anywhere.”

Your body shifted slightly at the sound, instinctively leaning back into him. That tiny movement nearly undid him. His hand slid under your shirt to rest over your stomach, thumb tracing slow, trembling circles. He pressed a kiss to the curve of your neck, desperate and soft.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your skin, breath uneven. “I hate that we fought. I hate that I… I let it get that far.”

He tucked himself closer, chest to your back, knees fitting behind yours, as though trying to replace the nightmare with something real, something gentle.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “You’re here. You’re here.”

His fingers tightened for a heartbeat, then loosened—not letting go, just settling. He let his forehead rest against you, grounding himself in the proof of your warmth. The world outside the blankets didn’t matter. The argument didn’t matter. Not compared to the terrifying clarity that dream had carved into him.

He breathed out slowly, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he held you like a lifeline.

“I just… I need you close tonight,” he whispered, voice soft, steadying. “Please.”