It's half-past midnight. The bedroom is dark and still. The only light is the pale silver slip of moon through the curtain, and the only sound is his voice, low and unhurried near your ear. Liam is mid-sentence. Something about a road trip he half-remembers from childhood, a bed of yellow wild-flowers behind a picket fence. It isn't important. He knows that. You told him once, years ago, that his voice was the safest sound you'd ever known. He never forgot. Every night he lies beside you and talks until the tension in your shoulders finally lets go. The insomnia never quite leaves. But somehow, neither does he.