The night was thick with an eerie stillness, the only sound being the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock on the far wall. Outside, the storm had calmed to a whisper, leaving only the faint patter of rain against the glass. But inside Vivie’s mind, a tempest was brewing, one far more menacing than the storm that had passed.

She had tried to sleep. She had curled under the covers, pulled them up to her chin, and willed herself into slumber. But sleep didn’t come easy. Not tonight.

Her mind was restless, the weight of the past pressing down on her chest like an anchor. She tossed and turned, her heart pounding against her ribs. It was only when exhaustion finally claimed her that the nightmare crept in—silent, insidious, merciless.

She was back there.

The dim alleyway. The suffocating grip of too many hands. The smell of sweat and cheap cologne clogging her lungs. A drunken laugh, cruel and taunting, echoed in her ears as rough fingers yanked at her clothes, as desperate hands pinned her down. Panic clawed at her throat, her voice stolen by sheer terror.

“Let go of me!” Her scream rang out into the night, a sound of pure, unfiltered horror.

She thrashed violently, fighting against unseen hands. In her nightmare, she was powerless, the helpless girl she once was. But in reality, she was alone in her dimly lit bedroom, drowning in the grip of her past.

The door burst open with a sharp crack.

Ashton.

He had heard her.

At first, he stood frozen in the doorway, eyes searching through the darkness. His breath came sharp, his pulse quickening at the sight before him. Vivie was tangled in the sheets, her body writhing, her breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. And then she screamed again—a sound that sent something visceral and raw clawing up his throat.

“Vivie.” His voice was firm, yet laced with something softer, something foreign even to himself. He moved swiftly to her side, hesitating only for a second before his hands found her shoulders.

“Vivie, wake up.”

She fought him.

In her nightmare, she was still trapped, still being held down by cruel hands that sought to break her. Her fists struck out, weak but frantic, and Ashton had to tighten his grip to keep her from hurting herself. He had never seen her like this—so vulnerable, so lost. It made his chest ache in a way he didn’t understand.

“Damn it, Vivie.” His voice was rough now, desperate. He shook her gently but firmly. “Wake up.”

Her eyes shot open, wide and terrified, her entire body trembling beneath his touch. For a moment, she was still caught in the memory, her gaze wild, unfocused. And then she saw him. Saw the dim glow of the bedside lamp, the worry etched in the hard lines of his face. Realization dawned slowly, like a wave receding from the shore.

“Ashton…?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, hoarse from screaming.

His grip loosened, but he didn’t move away. “You were having a nightmare.”

She swallowed, her throat dry and aching. Her hands clutched the fabric of his shirt as if grounding herself in reality. The dream still clung to her, the shadows of it lingering like ghosts in the corners of her mind.

She hated this. Hated that he had to see her like this—weak, broken. But at that moment, she was too drained to push him away.

Ashton didn’t speak for a long time. He simply sat there, his hands still lightly gripping her arms, his gaze unreadable. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he did something that surprised them both.

He shifted, moving to sit against the headboard beside her. His presence was solid, steady, anchoring her to the present. Without thinking, she leaned into him, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the cold sweat clinging to her skin.

His arms didn’t wrap around her, but he didn’t pull away either. It was an unspoken truce, a quiet understanding that in that moment, neither of them was willing to break.

Minutes passed. The only sound was their breathing, the steady rise and fall of their chests in the dim light. Ashton’s fingers brushed lightly against the edge of the sheets, a small, absentminded movement that sent an unfamiliar warmth curling in her chest.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he finally said, his voice low, controlled.

Vivie closed her eyes, exhaustion seeping into her bones. “I don’t think I can.”

He nodded, as if he understood. Maybe he did. Maybe, in some twisted way, Ashton Varela knew what it was like to be haunted by ghosts of the past.

Neither of them moved after that. The tension that always existed between them had melted away into something else—something fragile, something neither of them had the words for.

And as the night stretched on, the nightmares faded, swallowed by the warmth of the quiet presence beside her.

For the first time in a long while, Vivie slept peacefully.

Hours passed, and the darkness outside slowly gave way to the early gray of dawn. The storm had left behind a soft mist, draping the world in a hushed silence. Inside, the warmth of Ashton’s presence remained, even as he kept a careful distance.

Vivie stirred slightly, shifting against him. She was still asleep, her breathing deep and even, but the way she moved—subtly seeking the warmth he provided—made something tighten in his chest.

Ashton exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering over her peaceful expression. He should move. He should leave before she woke up and realized how close they were. And yet, he stayed.

His hand, still resting lightly on the blanket, curled slightly, fingers brushing against the fabric. He knew he was treading dangerous ground, standing on the edge of something that could either shatter or consume them both.

The moment wouldn’t last. Morning would come, and reality would set in once more. But for now, in this fragile sliver of time, they existed in a quiet, unspoken understanding.

And for once, neither of them ran from it.