Chapter Text
Tim had barely gotten through the front door before the weight of the day caught up with him.
The ranch-style house was dim and quiet, warm with the soft scent of vanilla from Layla’s ever-present wax melts. His boots felt like anchors. He unlaced them slowly, shoulders slumped, head pounding in rhythm with the dull ache that had settled in the base of his skull sometime after lunch.
“Long one?” Layla called from the kitchen, not looking up from where she was packing away leftovers into Tupperware.
“Yeah,” he replied, voice gravel. “Shitty call this morning, paperwork the rest of the day. I think I spent four hours lookin’ for one form that didn’t even exist.”
Layla huffed sympathetically. “Sounds like the school district.”
He dropped onto the couch with a sigh that rattled in his ribs. “You okay?”
She shrugged, joining him a few minutes later with a water bottle and a sigh of her own. “Ten-year-olds trying to stage a coup. Had to confiscate three fart guns and someone put glue in another kid’s hair.”
Tim huffed a dry chuckle. “You win.”
“I usually do,” she said with a small grin. “Want food? I saved you some.”
“Not yet. Just wanna sit.”
They sank into the quiet for a while, the kind of tired silence that only comes after long, thankless days. When Layla picked up the remote, she gave him a questioning look.
“Something easy?”
“Sure.”
She flicked through options until she settled on a war film—something from the early 2000s. Loud, gritty, a little too close to home, but Tim didn’t say anything. It was a good movie. One he’d seen before.
He kept his breathing steady through the scenes that hit too close. He wasn’t going to ruin a perfectly okay night. Not after a long shift. Not when Layla’s head was resting near his shoulder, legs curled up under her on the couch.
She yawned halfway through, blinking slowly. “I’m gonna crash,” she mumbled, stretching like a cat. “You staying up?”
“Nah,” he said. “I’ll clean up.”
“‘Kay. Night, Gutterson.”
“Night, Teach.”
The house went still not long after that. He showered quick, brushed his teeth, and changed into old sweatpants. He should have been exhausted enough to pass out. But something in his chest wouldn’t let go.
Tim wasn’t sure when the dream started.
He only knew the walls were red and the sand was in his throat again. Smoke, shouting, gunfire that echoed in ways it shouldn't. His body remembered it more than his mind. Panic thudded through him like a second heartbeat.
His fingers twitched. Then curled.
Then his whole body jerked.
“NO—!”
Layla sat up with a start.
It wasn’t a loud sound that woke her. Just… something. Off. Subtle, but enough to yank her out of sleep like a hook behind the ribs.
Her body knew it before her brain did.
She blinked into the dark, disoriented. The soft hum of the ceiling fan spun overhead, stirring the heavy air. The old bones of the house creaked quietly in the night, a familiar, comforting noise. But this—this wasn’t that. Something had shifted.
She rubbed her face with both hands and sat still, listening.
Down the hall, all was quiet… but not in the normal way. It was the kind of silence that screamed.
Her thoughts were sluggish from sleep, but her chest was tight. Her instincts were kicking up in that way they only did when something was truly wrong.
And they’d been kicking up more and more lately.
She sighed softly and leaned back against her pillow, frowning into the dark.
Tim had been off for weeks now. No—longer than that, if she was honest with herself. It had started subtly—shorter answers, later nights, a missed dinner here, a skipped movie night there. But lately, it had become harder to ignore. His smiles didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. His laugh—when it happened—sounded hollow. The spark that had made her feel safe around him, the quiet steadiness that used to hum from his presence, had dulled to something brittle.
And it wasn’t just that he seemed tired. It was something else.
Shut down.
Withdrawn.
He’d always been quiet—sure—but this was different. It was like he’d gone underground emotionally. Like something inside him was retreating, slowly but surely, folding inward in a way that scared her.
She thought of the way he barely touched his dinner tonight. Of how stiff his body had been during the movie. Of how he’d flinched—barely, but enough—when a gunshot rang out in the scene. She’d noticed it. She’d felt his breath hitch beside her.
She hadn’t said anything.
She hadn’t wanted to say anything. Not because she didn’t care—god, she did—but because she didn’t know how. And Tim was like a closed book wrapped in barbed wire. He didn’t hand out pages easily. He barely admitted he had a story in the first place.
And what if she was wrong? What if she was reading into things that weren’t there?
She chewed on the inside of her cheek, unease creeping up her spine. She hated how familiar this felt. That quiet kind of drowning people did when they didn’t want to burden anyone.
She’d seen it before—former students, old friends, even one ex-boyfriend who’d smiled all the way into a panic attack he couldn’t name. And Tim… Tim carried the weight of a world she couldn’t pretend to understand.
She had tried. Had read a few articles, a book here or there. Knew the words—PTSD, hypervigilance, re-experiencing—but words were cold when compared to seeing it. Feeling it sitting next to you on the couch while someone you care about drifts further out to sea, pretending they’re fine.
He’d said he was fine.
Of course he had.
But she’d seen the way he stood in doorways a second too long. The way his jaw tensed every time a siren passed. The way he didn’t sleep, or how he never quite rested when he did. Just that kind of exhausted stasis that looked like sleep but wasn’t peace.
She’d wanted to talk to him. To say, “I’m worried about you,” or, “You don’t have to carry it alone.” But the words felt too big, too sharp, and she didn’t want to push him further away.
So instead, she made sure he always had coffee in the morning. That dinner was hot when he got home, even if it meant eating late. That the TV was on when he came in, just so it wouldn’t be quiet. Just so he wouldn’t feel alone.
She didn’t know if it helped. But it was all she had.
And the thing was—Tim wasn’t just her roommate. He was Tim.
The one who drove her to urgent care at 2 a.m. when she’d slammed her hand in her car door.
The one who fixed her front step without being asked, just so she wouldn’t trip.
The one who looked at her like she was a person worth listening to, not just another woman with a job people dismissed because she “taught kids.”
And now that very same person was unraveling in front of her, thread by thread, and she didn’t know how to stop it.
Didn’t know how to reach him.
She thought again of the way he’d whispered “thanks” earlier, eyes a little too tired, smile a little too forced.
Something about it had lingered in her mind like a splinter.
God. Was she imagining this? Was she just too tired herself?
Layla shifted under her blanket and stared up at the ceiling.
Maybe she’d talk to him tomorrow. Ask him to take a walk. Maybe just say it plain: You’ve been quiet lately. Do you want to talk about it?
Or maybe he’d lie.
Or maybe he’d just say he was fine again and offer her that empty smile.
Still, she had to say something. She knew that now. She had waited too long already.
And maybe -just maybe- he’d tell her the truth.
With a heavy sigh, she closed her eyes and let the thoughts swirl until they dulled. Eventually, her body sank back into sleep, lulled by the hum of the fan and the rhythm of her breathing.
She dreamed of waves on a beach, crashing far too loud.
That’s when she woke up.
She rubbed her face, pushing off the covers. The hallway was dark and still, save for the hum of the ceiling fan and the soft creaks of the old house settling.
And then she heard it.
A noise, low and broken, from Tim’s room.
“Tim?” she called softly, stepping into the hall.
No answer. Just another sound—something between a whimper and a gasp.
She hurried to his door and knocked. “Hey, Gutterson? You okay?”
Nothing. Not even a stir.
Her heartbeat kicked up, concern twisting in her gut.
“Tim?”
Still nothing.
She reached for the doorknob and turned it—locked.
That was unusual. He never locked it. Ever.
She hesitated, torn between respect and panic. She was about to walk away when she heard it. A barely-there voice.
“H-help... sorry.”
That was all it took.
She stood on tiptoe and reached to the top of the doorframe. Tim had a hex key up there for emergencies. Her fingers brushed it, grabbed it, wrestled with the lock in the dark.
It finally clicked open with a small snick, and she shoved the door inward, heart in her throat.
Tim was thrashing in his bed, bare-chested, soaked in sweat. His skin was pale, jaw clenched tight. His hands gripped the sheets like they were lifelines. His chest rose and fell in wild, shallow gasps.
“Tim!” she rushed to him, dropping to her knees beside the bed. “Gutterson! Wake up!”
His head jerked, but his eyes didn’t open. His body jolted again, and a sound tore from his throat—something that broke her.
“Tim, please. Wake up. It’s Layla.”
He snapped awake like he’d been shot. His back hit the headboard hard, breath ragged, wild eyes searching the dark like he was still there, still in it.
He flinched when he saw her.
“It’s me,” she said quickly, hands raised. “Hey. Tim. It’s Layla.”
He blinked, clearly not seeing her. “H-huh?”
“You’re safe. You’re home. With me. You’re in your room.”
“Room,” he echoed faintly. “My r-room.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” She stayed crouched beside the bed, keeping her voice steady. “Okay. Can you do something for me?”
He nodded shakily.
“Tell me two things you hear.”
He focused, jaw trembling. “The fan… and your v-voice.”
“Good.” Her heart cracked but she kept going. “Now three things you see.”
He glanced around. “My hands. Um… my bed. You.”
“Okay. Four things you feel.”
He took a shaky breath, eyes filling. “My blanket… my pants. The wind from the fan. A-and my pillow.”
“That’s perfect, Tim.” She reached up slowly and placed her hand on his, warm and steady. “You did good.”
He nodded again, but his lip wobbled and suddenly his whole face crumpled.
He let out a soft sob, head falling forward.
“Sweetheart,” she whispered, tears in her throat now. “Do you want me to stay with you?”
He didn’t answer with words. Just nodded, chin trembling.
“P-please.”
She climbed gently onto the bed, settling beside him. He shifted instinctively, curling toward her. She pulled the blanket over both of them and wrapped an arm around his back, the other around his shoulders.
And that’s when it hit him.
The tears came fast—hot and silent at first, then gasping and raw.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She blinked down at him, confused. “What?”
He buried his face in her chest, breath stuttering.
“I’m sorry. Sorry. I’m so sorry,” he mumbled again and again, like a prayer, like a curse.
“Hey,” she whispered, stroking his hair. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
But he didn’t stop.
“I’m sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Tim,” she cupped the back of his head, holding him closer. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He shook against her, muscles tight like he was still bracing for something. “I’m broken. I’m—messed up, and you shouldn’t—”
“You’re not broken,” she said firmly, tears in her eyes now too. “You’re hurting. That’s not the same thing.”
He whimpered again, hiding his face. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this…”
“Stop,” she said gently but seriously. “You’d do it for me.”
He didn’t argue. Just sobbed harder, clutching the front of her t-shirt like it was the only thing anchoring him.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her fingers carded through his damp hair, and her chin rested lightly on top of his head.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured again, voice barely audible.
“I know,” she whispered back. “But you don’t have to be.”
They stayed like that a long time.
Eventually, his breathing slowed, and his grip loosened, just slightly. But he never let go of her completely. His tears soaked her shirt, and she didn’t care.
She held him until the tremors faded. Until his body, little by little, began to believe he was safe.
Until the ghosts let go—just enough for him to sleep.
And she stayed, guarding the silence with soft words and steady hands, whispering over and over:
“You’re home. You’re safe. I’m here.”