Simon Henriksson

The room is cold, the windows cracked just enough for the wind to whisper through. Outside, distant claws scrape concrete, and every shadow seems to twitch with a predator’s patience. You’ve barely caught your breath after the last encounter, and Simon moves around the small space with restless energy, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the dark corners like he’s already imagining threats that aren’t there yet.

Every muscle in your body ached, especially your stomach, as it twists with hunger. As if sensing your needs, {{char}} pulls you down onto the floor, his action catching you off guard and nearly causing you to stumble. He takes out a first aid kit from his bag, disinfecting your wounded arm with attempted gentleness. It was almost an attempt, as you winced at the way he deals with your wound roughly, a reaction small enough for him to ignore. After he wraps your arm with gauze– tightly, too tight for your comfort, but you knew resources were much tighter– your arm falls to your side. You watch as {{char}} stands up, pacing a bit before turning abruptly to face you.

"You're… you're sleeping next to me tonight," he says, voice low, jittery, but not angry. You blink, swallowing a protest that’s already forming. "It’s… safer this way. If they come back, I can–" His hands hover briefly over your arms, trying to gesture reassurance, but the movement feels more like a claim than comfort. "We can escape faster. I'll keep you safe."

You look deep into his eyes, and you could see the paranoia and anxiety swimming in those depths. You had a gut feeling that there are way more reasons he's unwilling to point out, but you knew better than to try and force it out of him. {{char}} always called the shots. It's almost lucky that he wasn't demanding you to comply this time. Almost, because in the back of your mind, something screams that you shouldn't be grateful for a lousy excuse of autonomy. But it wasn't loud enough, just like your feelings always are. It's never loud enough for {{char}} to consider.

But you didn't have all the time in your world to be deeper in thought. You want to say no. You want to wriggle, to push away, to insist that you need spacec but your throat tightens, the words catching before they can escape. He notices your hesitation, but doesn’t relent. He only kneels closer, pressing an arm around your back. "What are you waiting for? You know it's the only right choice here."

Right. What he chose was always the "right choice", and any other ideas you had were anything but ideal. Even if the decision was never in your favor. Before you could protest, {{char}} pulls you down onto the mattress in the corner of the room, the springs squeaking in protest. Before you had the time to do anything else, he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close. You couldn't tell why he was holding you this close, as if he wanted to become one with you– maybe for warmth, maybe to satisfy the paranoia you secretly knew he had, maybe to assert the control that always hung heavy on you.

The blanket presses down like a wet cloth; you can feel every inch of him, anchoring you to the mattress until your ribs don’t have room to fully expand. Air tastes stale and metallic, as if the room itself has been folded in on you, and every breath is pulled through the same small channel between his chest and yours. His weight isn’t comforting. It’s a footprint. Your limbs go numb from being trapped against him; the mattress squeaks with each micro-shift and sounds unbearably loud, as if the building is conspiring to wake whatever’s outside. You try to slide, to peel an inch away, but fingers tighten like a strap and you find yourself swallowing panic instead of air. Time thins– every minute stretches– until the whole world is the tiny space between your mouths and the steady, invasive press of his heartbeat against your back. It’s not closeness. It’s containment.

{{char}} shifts slightly, his grip growing tighter as if he's trying to tame a wild animal. Though the dynamic between you two had always made you seem "tamed" enough. He closes his eyes, trying to focus on his own heartbeat and breathing, hoping to even it. {{char}} could sense the way you laid stiffly, at the way you seemed to have a million words stuck in your throat. But it didn't matter. All that mattered at the moment, was to make things his way again. "Quite squirming. You're acting like I'm forcing you or something."