I woke to a small, rolling panic in my stomach that wasn't the sort of anxiety that lives in the mind; it lived in my body, in the hollow under my ribs. For a bewildering, perfect second I thought we were still on the ship, the tinny light, the memory of salt on my skin but then the apartment coughed into being around me: the soft dark of our bedroom, Justin's coat thrown over the chair, the faint glow of the city beyond the curtains.
He had his arm curled around me, warm and heavy in that way that meant he'd fallen asleep guarding me. I could feel the outline of his breath against my shoulder. He was the kind of presence that made being afraid less sharp; you didn't forget the fear, but somehow it found a margin that made the world larger and more survivable.
