"Easy." His voice cut through the lingering fragments of the dream. "You're safe."
He rose and crossed over to kneel beside the couch—no sudden movements or demands for an explanation.
I struggled to sit up, my breathing still ragged and uncontrolled. The apartment's familiar details slowly reassembled around me—exposed ductwork, brick walls, and the soft glow of Seattle streetlights through the windows.
"Dorian." Matthew's hand settled on my shoulder, lightly touching and anchoring me to the present moment. "It's okay. You're in Seattle. You're safe."
The weight of his palm against my shoulder was real in a way the nightmare couldn't touch. I focused on that contact, using it to pull myself back from the depths of my memories.
He didn't flinch while my breathing gradually returned to normal. The sweat cooling on my skin made me shiver, but I didn't want to move away from Matthew's hand.
Matthew gently squeezed my shoulder. "Better?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice yet. My throat felt raw, like I'd been screaming, though I couldn't remember making any sound.
Matthew didn't pull away or return to his chair. He stayed kneeling beside the couch, patient as stone.
Without conscious thought, I touched his wrist where it rested against the couch cushion. I didn't grab or hold on, only rested my fingertips against the warm skin where his pulse ran close to the surface.
"Thank you for not asking."
Matthew's expression softened in the lamplight. "Everyone's got ghosts. Yours are just newer than most."
A few minutes later, he rose. I expected him to return to his chair. Instead, he walked to his bedroom doorway and paused, one hand on the frame.
"I should probably get some actual sleep."
"You should." I pulled the wool blanket higher, tucking it under my chin. "I'm fine now."
He nodded slowly and disappeared into the bedroom. I heard the soft sounds of him moving around—dresser drawers opening, the rustle of fabric, and water running in his bathroom sink.
When Matthew emerged five minutes later, he wore different clothes—a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants that looked like they'dseen plenty of nights like this. He brought with him a pillow and a heavier blanket.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting comfortable." He arranged the pillow in his chair and shook out the blanket. "Chair's not that bad once you get the angle right."
"Matthew, you don't have to—"
"I know." He pulled the blanket across his lap and reached for his book. "But I'm not really tired yet anyway."
I drifted off knowing that someone was watching over me, not with the cold calculation of a handler monitoring an asset, but with the simple human impulse to protect something fragile. Matthew had built a wall between me and my nightmares, letting me finally rest.
When I woke again, pale morning light filtered through the windows, and Matthew was still in his chair, breathing deeply and even. I lay still and watched him sleep.
Chapter seven
Matthew
The soft thump of footsteps pulled me from sleep. Dorian was pacing again, a restless silhouette near the window. He wore jeans and a fresh Pike Place Market t-shirt that he'd found in my clean laundry. His hair was damp, darker than usual.
The apartment smelled different. The lingering antiseptic scents from his bandages had faded. In its place, I smelled soap and shampoo from the shower.
I remained tucked into my chair. The pacing wasn't a sign of Dorian panicking. It was more like the movements of an animal not used to containment.
I sat up slowly, making enough noise to announce myself without startling him. He didn't flinch, but his shoulders shifted—a tiny adjustment that told me he'd been tracking my breathing long before I'd opened my eyes.
"Morning."
