#character comforts reader

That is, until your body betrays you again.

You jolt upright, heart hammering against your ribcage like it’s trying to escape. Breath shallow, fingers trembling uncontrollably, a sickly wave of nausea crashing through you. The sheets feel damp. Your skin, cold and clammy. The world spins in jagged half-turns.

You brace yourself on the mattress, vision swimming.

And then you feel it—

a soft rustle of feathers.

Sunday shifts beside you. He doesn’t speak at first. His golden eyes open slowly, catching the dim glow of the cabin lights like twin suns behind clouds.

"...You're awake," he murmurs, voice quiet and smooth, but the tension behind it betrays his calm.

You nod, barely. Your teeth are chattering too hard to form a proper sentence. It’s hard to even breathe, let alone explain the panic rising in your chest.

In seconds, he’s upright, a hand reaching out to steady your shaking shoulder. His touch is cool, grounding—not demanding or overwhelming, just there. Present. A gentle anchor.

“Shh... I’m here. Stay with me,” he says softly, his halo flickering with subtle pulses. “Try not to push it away. Just... breathe. As slowly as you can manage.”

You attempt to mimic his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. But it catches, and tears sting your eyes as your throat closes again.

“I know,” Sunday whispers, his wings gently unfurling as he slides behind you on the bed, wrapping one around your back like a soft, living blanket. “It feels like you’re drowning. Like your body’s forgetting how to be your own. But you are here. You are safe.”

You lean back against his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm behind your shoulder blades. He begins to hum—low, melodic, like a lullaby sung through centuries. It doesn't erase the panic, but it cuts through it. Anchors you, again.

His hand slips into yours, thumb stroking across your knuckles. “You don’t have to hide this from me,” he says, quieter now. “Even if it breaks the peace of night, even if it shatters the illusion of serenity I’ve clung to—I would rather see you like this than never see you at all.”

Eventually, the trembling subsides. The nausea fades. The heartbeat in your chest slows to something more manageable. Sunday’s wing remains around you, steady and soft.

“I used to think dreams were the only place safe from pain,” he murmurs into your hair. “But even nightmares can be shared. And that... makes them gentler.”

You drift back to sleep like that, wrapped in warmth and quiet understanding.

You don’t know what wakes you first—the nausea, the clammy cold, or the sense that your own body is turning against you.

Your eyes fly open and you gasp, sitting upright too fast. The room tilts violently. Your hands won’t stop shaking. A buzzing fills your ears. Like panic and vertigo had a baby and cranked the volume to max.

You barely register the sound of the door opening until a low voice breaks through the chaos.

“Well, well. You’re either trying to win an Oscar for Most Dramatic Midnight Wake-Up, or something’s wrong.”

Aventurine steps into the room, shirt only half-buttoned, rose-tinted glasses pushed up on his head. The usual smirk fades the moment he sees your state—your hunched posture, your wide eyes, the way you're clutching the blanket like a lifeline.

He moves faster than you expect.

“Okay. Hey. Hey—look at me,” he says, dropping to one knee in front of you. He cups your face with a gentleness that borders on reverence, despite his casual tone. His hands are warm, gold rings cool against your fevered skin.

“You’re shaking like a bad investment, sweetheart. Talk to me. Panic attack? Apnea? You gotta give me a clue here.”

“I—I can’t—breathe,” you stammer, chest rising in shallow bursts. “Everything’s... spinning. Heart’s... too fast—”

“Okay. Noted. Not ideal, but fixable,” he says, already kicking into action. He shrugs off his overcoat and wraps it around your shoulders like armor. “Lean into me. Focus on the sound of my voice. Count if you have to. Or pretend I’m saying something charming—it’s not hard, really.”

You try to smile, but the tremor won’t leave your lips. Aventurine notices. His expression softens.

He slides up beside you on the bed, looping an arm around your back and pressing your forehead to his shoulder.

“Let me guess—you woke up like this, no warning? Body’s staging a coup?”

You nod faintly. He exhales, eyes narrowing. Not with annoyance—never at you. But at whatever did this to you.

“I hate this. I hate seeing you like this. Not because it’s messy. Not because it’s ugly. But because I can’t gamble my way out of it. No dice roll, no strategy, just... waiting it out.”

You shiver violently, and he tightens his hold, murmuring into your hair.

“But here’s the thing. I’ll wait. As long as it takes. You can shake, you can cry, you can throw up on my fancy blazer if you need to—I’ve got more. I’ve got you.”

Minutes pass.

The storm in your chest begins to subside, slowly replaced by exhaustion and the heavy lull of safety. You slump against him, drained.

Aventurine kisses your temple, lingering. “There we go. That’s my favorite sound—when your breathing finally slows.”

You mumble a weak apology. He snorts.

“Apologize again and I’ll fake a heart attack just to make it even,” he teases. “Next time this happens, wake me. I don’t care if it’s 3am or if I’m giving a speech to the IPC Board.”

He tilts your chin gently.

“You’re not a burden. You’re the only bet I’d stake everything on.”