Good morning, my love... he growled low in your ear, his voice rough with sleep and that familiar rumble that always seemed to vibrate straight through your bones. You shuddered, the sensation tickling deep inside your ear canal, spreading warmth down your neck whether you wanted it to or not.
It wasn't new... this little ritual of his. Every morning, without fail, he'd press his lips close and growl until your eyes fluttered open. Some days you melted into it... leaned over and kissed him slow and lazy, tasting the night on his tongue. Other mornings you swatted at him like an annoying fly, grumbling about personal space and morning breath and how you were not a damn werewolf.
It all depended on the mood you woke up in.
But this morning... this morning was different. After that first involuntary shiver, you didn't move. You didn't smile. You didn't push him away. You just lay there... perfectly still... eyes open but seeing nothing at all.
The silence stretched thick and strange between you.
Because last night... sometime past three a.m.... you had finally snapped. You'd sat bolt upright in the dark and cursed your ex out loud... every vile name you'd swallowed for years... every memory you'd tried to bury... you'd screamed it into the empty room until your throat was raw and your cheeks were wet. You'd called him a monster... a parasite... a thief who stole pieces of you that never grew back.
And now the tears were back... quieter this time. They slipped from the corners of your eyes without permission... tracing warm paths across the bridge of your nose... pooling for a second before dripping onto the pillow. You didn't wipe them away. You didn't make a sound. You just let them fall... let them fall... let them fall...
What was the point of crying over something that happened years ago? The wound should have scabbed over by now... should have turned into a faint scar you could touch without flinching. But trauma doesn't work like that. It festers. It waits. It wears new faces and crawls into new beds and whispers, remember me?
"What's wrong?" he asked softly... gently... his large hand settling on your shoulder. He gave the tiniest shake, like he was trying to wake you from a nightmare you hadn't realized you were still trapped in.
You didn't answer. Couldn't.
You didn't even notice when he slipped out of bed... didn't register the soft pad of his feet across the floor... didn't hear the quiet swish of the curtains. Only when the full blast of morning sunlight poured in did your body jolt. You sat up too fast, blinking hard against the white-hot glare, tears still wet on your cheeks.
You groaned... long and miserable. The light felt like punishment.
"Why didn't you just turn on the lamp?" you muttered, voice hoarse from last night's draining task.
"Natural light's better for you," he said simply, walking back toward the bed.
Your vision slowly adjusted. There he was... standing at the foot of the bed in nothing but dark briefs and mismatched socks... bare chest catching the sunlight... looking at you like you were the most fragile thing he'd ever held.
You sighed... heavy... exhausted... and collapsed back against the pillows, pulling the blanket up to your chin. Everything hurt. Your head. Your chest. The space behind your eyes. You felt hollowed out... like someone had scooped out everything soft and left only sharp edges.
"Tell me what's wrong," he said again... quieter this time. He sat on the edge of the mattress... close enough that you could feel the heat coming off his skin.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. The words stuck... tangled up in fear and shame and the terrifying thought that saying it out loud might make it all real again. One sentence about Daniel... just one... and you'd be right back there. Back in that apartment. Back in that silence. Back to nights when sleep only came if you exhausted yourself crying first.
He saw it... the panic flickering across your face. Without a word he shifted closer... slid one knee onto the bed... took both your trembling hands in his. His thumbs traced slow circles over your knuckles.
"Hey... hey... look at me," he whispered. "Breathe with me... in... out... good. I am right here."
His voice was steady... low... safe. Something inside you cracked open.
And then it all poured out... every ugly detail from last night.
When the last word left your lips, he pulled you into his arms... hard... like he was trying to hold all your broken pieces together with his own body.
"I'm so sorry," he murmured into your hair... over and over. "I'm so fucking sorry that happened to you. You didn't deserve a single second of it."
You sagged against him... completely spent. "I don't know how to keep doing this," you whispered. "Some days I think I'm okay... and then... then it just hits me all over again."
He eased you both down slowly... until you were lying face-to-face... legs tangled... his arm tucked under your neck... the other wrapped tight around your waist. Not sexual. Not even close. Just... shelter.
"Close your eyes," he said softly... lips brushing your forehead. "Just let the light in... let it touch you... let it warm you... I've got you."
You hadn't slept last night... not really. But now... with sunlight spilling across the bed... with his heartbeat steady under your cheek... with his quiet breathing matching yours... you finally slipped under.
Safe... yet again.