You had insisted on staying up with him, the dark circles now embracing his eyes only growing darker by the day becoming the culprit behind unshed tears brimming at your eyes. The few which managed to escape were gently wiped away by Andrew’s fingertips grazing lovingly along the borders of everything he held dear.

Andrew doesn’t blame you for dozing off. In fact, he had been hoping for that exact outcome by loosening his grip on the arm you had around his waist and letting his eyelids drift shut with the goal of staying as still as possible while he attempted to even out his breathing. 

Disturbed by forces unknown to him, you begin to stir now. Your eyebrows pull together to form a crease at the junction they form, your eyes squeezing themselves shut before opening up in a fluttering confusion that has you tightening your grip on him as you strain your neck to get a better look at his face.

Tired eyes- as beautiful as they come, gaze back into yours- an apology etched in their depths. Almost as if to say, “I’m sorry.” And he was. 

Andrew was sorry that he couldn’t even manage to accomplish a task as simple as falling asleep.

He was sorry for being the reason behind your disturbed sleep, your worried eyes spiralling, trying to think of ways to help. He was sorry for the tears you shed, the path they traced down your cheek carving itself into his bones like hot iron rods dragging themselves through him to reach the earth.

“Oh shit- I didn’t. I didn’t mean to pass out that quickly. Sorry.” You try to push up on your elbows with a half muddled apology ready at the tip of your tongue, only to get pushed back into the mattress by a firm hand. Careful to apply as little pressure as possible, it comes to rest at your hip.

Drawing you closer to his chest, Andrew informs softly as his nose prods at your own,“Don’t apologize, baby. I wasn’t expecting you to. Go back to sleep, you have-”

“No. Don’t you dare tell me to go back to sleep.” You try to fix him with the most menacing glare you can conjure in your hazy state. It must not be very convincing because you see Andrew’s lips tug themselves up in a half smile.

“Hey, c’mere.” You let your palm drift to the elbow of the arm anchored at your hip before tugging at it, encouraging him to roll over on top of you.

You’re only partially successful when he lets his left half align itself over your torso, your hearts slotting over each other. The arm resting on your hip travels farther up, curling around your bicep. Tightening its grip and pulling you impossibly closer.

Guiding his head to the soft skin sitting beneath your collarbone, you begin raking your fingers through the auburn curls. Scratching at his scalp lightly, up and down in a pattern you knew he found to be soothing. Hoping that it would offer some semblance of relaxation to the man in your arms, who could desperately use some. Perhaps more than anyone else, right now.

You bring your other hand to trace the constellation of freckles adorning his back, alternating between drawing circles and running your fingers along the imaginary boundaries your mind conjures up.

Between his shoulder blades and along the length of his spine, you follow the path of the freckles his skin bears. Etched into him, to carry forever. Well, at least until winter came around.  

The short kisses delivered in quick succession to the junction of your neck do not go unnoticed by you. Spelling out what he cannot find the words to express, the exhaustion catching up to him as emotion clouds his airways and constricts his throat. Thank You. 

You pause your ministrations to press your lips to his temple in a lingering kiss. I’m here, I've got you. 

“Andrew- hey, are you okay?” you murmur softly into the suddenly tension-filled space as you straighten your posture. 

It’s a question that would, coming from literally anybody else, make irritation bloom in his chest. But coming from you, it almost feels like an entirely different question to Andrew. The taunting tone he’s come to expect the question to be laced in is blatantly absent from the words flowing past your lips. 

You don’t want to mock him, he reminds himself as he tears away his gaze from the documentary to train it on you instead. In fact, the way you sound can be closely associated with worry. You always worry. Especially when it comes to him. Andrew lets the guilt of having become the main catalyst driving forth that particular reaction in you, take up space instead.

He lets it take up space. But he does not allow it to spread, to migrate down until it takes hold of his limbs and renders him useless.

In a way he can’t really find words to describe, he enjoys the worry. Revels in the way your eyebrows furrow in that adorable way, the way you adjust your volume to be lower than usual to make it a little easier on him when he gets in his head the way does sometimes. The repetitive back and forth pattern in which you trace along his knuckles softly to let him know you were there for him- like you were doing right now.

Because it all pointed to the fact that you cared. You cared about his physical and mental wellbeing. You cared about making sure he was never overwhelmed, no matter what was at stake. You cared about him knowing he was safe. 

Andrew brings his other hand down to envelope your free one, hoping to bring you the same reassurance you often brought him. His gaze slips from your face, following along your arm to lock in your intertwined hands. 

Closing his eyes, he allows the weight of your hand in his ground himself with a deep breath. “It’s um- you know, Julia. She was really afraid of storms. Well, the thunder really. The noise- it, uh, it used to scare the shit outta her.”

Andrew's eyes refuse to meet yours. You try ducking your head- just a little, to encourage even a fleeting moment of eye contact. It kills you inside, every time he gets like this. Mostly because it was such a rare occasion that you had to coax eye contact out of him, since usually he gave it so freely and in abundance.

His piercing eyes, always inviting you to open up, no matter what the subject of the conversation was. Making his presence known, the solid reality of how he was there to listen. To lean on, to cry (God help whoever made that happen), to hold you, to kiss your worries away. Letting you know that with him, you were safe. No matter what.

His unflinching gaze roaming every inch of your face while he cradled your face in his rough palms- holding you between them like you were something precious and fragile. Finally landing on your lips before descending on them, kissing you as if it gave him the oxygen he needed to live, to be around for the next second. Breaking contact only to let out half-cracked whispers of ‘I love you’s, pressed to the corner of your mouth.

So, to see your Andrew- the epitome of reassurance, hesitating to allow himself the same grace he’s always so quick to offer you, pokes at something in your chest like a hot iron rod.

You pause the patterns you’re tracing on his knuckles to lay your hand, palm down on the top of his hand and squeeze in hopes of drawing him out from wherever his mind had wandered off to. Andrew finally lifts his head slightly, giving his eyes permission to sweep over the junction of your throat. 

Not quite where you’d like him to, but you can tell the action takes great effort on his part. 

“And back when we were kids sleeping in the same room, she’d slip into my bed when it rained,” he continues in a voice drenched in unsteadiness. “I’d hold her hand, ‘protect’ her until the thunder passed.” A small chuckle sneaks its way in as Andrew recollects bits and pieces of memories which now seem to him to be from another lifetime.

“I don’t- I guess it just doesn’t get easier sometimes.” He admits with a deep breath, his eyes gracing yours with their presence once more, lips pulled up into a half-smile which much more closely resembles a grimace for your sake.

You don’t get a chance to formulate a response- one you feel might be sufficient at the moment before Andrew drops his head on your shoulder. Nose prodding at the crook of your neck, nestling into the warmth the spot offers. He wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you impossibly closer.

You let him pull you against him, arms circling you in the most Andrew way possible. His hold grows so tight that it's borderline painful before swiftly loosening as soon as he picks up on the slightest involuntary hitch in your breath.

“I’m sorry my love,” you offer into the crown of his head, hand rubbing up and down his back. You can feel the muscles going slack. No longer pulled taut, to fit the rigid posture he always maintained.

Dropping a lingering kiss to follow up your apology, your palm continues its journey. Up and down, up and down again. Leaving its path a little more easier to tread on its next trip down.

“Don’t be,” the reply comes muffled against your skin. “Not your fault.” 

You watch the sky outside light up in preparation for another boom. The journey continues through the freckle-filled planes you love more than anyone could, well at least according to you, smoothing over knotted muscles. Up and down, again and again.