At first, she thought it was tenderness — the way he’d reach for her only when the room was still, when her breathing had slowed into that quiet rhythm between dreaming and waking. His hands would move gently, almost apologetically, as though afraid of waking something fragile.
But after a while, she began to wonder why. Why only then? Why only when she wasn’t fully there to meet him?
It wasn’t neglect. There was something haunted about it, something almost sorrowful. She began to notice the way he’d watch her when she pretended to sleep — the conflict in his expression, the hesitation before every touch. He wasn’t taking advantage. He was searching for something.
And one night, as the air between them trembled with unspoken thoughts, she understood. He didn’t touch her in her sleep because he wanted distance. He did it because it was the only time he could let his guard down — when she couldn’t see him feeling.
In daylight, he was composed, certain, collected. The kind of man who carried his control like armor. But in the dark, when her eyes were closed and the world was quiet, that armor slipped. He could love her then without fear of being read, of being judged, of being too much or not enough.
He wasn’t afraid of her rejection — he was afraid of his own vulnerability.
Sometimes, love is easier in silence, in shadows. For him, touching her when she was half-asleep was the only way to say the things he didn’t know how to speak. The tenderness he offered in those moments was real, but it lived in the gray space between courage and cowardice.
One night, she decided not to pretend anymore. When his hand found hers in the dark, she didn’t move, but she whispered, “I’m awake.”
He froze — breath caught, tension rising. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then she turned toward him, eyes open, voice soft. “You don’t have to wait until I’m asleep to touch me.”
Something broke inside him then — not a wound, but a dam. He didn’t answer; he just exhaled, and for the first time, she felt him touch her like he wasn’t hiding.
Since that night, he still sometimes reaches for her in the half-light before dawn — not out of habit, but because that’s when he feels most human. But now, when he does, she always opens her eyes.
And every time, he meets her gaze — fully, unguarded — learning that being seen doesn’t have to hurt.
Because sometimes, the people who touch you when you’re half-asleep aren’t afraid of you — they’re afraid of themselves, and the terrifying beauty of what it means to truly love without hiding.