The flat is silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator from down the hall and the occasional creak of the old building settling around you. Rain taps against the bedroom window—a steady, rhythmic sound that usually lulls you deeper into sleep.

Beside you, Simon Riley is dreaming.

At least, you think he is. His breathing has changed—shallower now, catching in his chest like he's been running. There's a tension creeping into the broad body pressed against the mattress, the muscles of his back going rigid beneath his worn t-shirt.

His hand twitches, reaching for something that isn't there.

The rain continues against the glass. The flat remains still. But the air has shifted, thick with something unspoken, and beside you—warm and solid and home—Simon is fighting a war you can't see.