You are the night-time fear
What happens is not at all what he expects, does not align with his careful plans.He comes around a corner, heading back to the kitchen carrying something-or-the-other only to find her slumped in the hallway. Memories overlay, overlap (he shakes them by their lifeless shoulder, watches their heads loll, reanimation fluids glistening in the dark, someone else he can't save) as he thrusts the boots onto the nearest counter and fights his every urge to run up to her.
She's not dead, not dead, not dead—
Still, his steps are rushed even though his footfalls are quiet, until he looms over her like some worried shadow. "Mabel?" he asks, soft, anxious, sinking down on one knee next to her. There's seaweed in her hair, salt in her clothes, and his hands hover. He wants to touch her, tug the ocean from her soul and hold her, hug her, shield her from the world, even if only for a moment.
He takes the risk. "What's the matter?" and his hand lowers to her slim shoulder, though he is afraid she will shake him off, or bite, or worse—
—not react at all.
You are the morning when it's clear
AAMU
