Lakeside night: Seven/Liam
It'd been months since he stepped barefoot into a briny puddle on the carpeted floor, or found a message in the steamed glass of his shower. But Seven still slept restlessly most nights, and with a sheen of salt against either temple - more often than not waking abruptly and with the feeling that he'd left a hand outstretched in empty air. Not watched, but like he'd come up to the edge of a cliff with his toes wrapped over the jagged rock and his weight could send him sailing if he wanted badly enough to find the source of the gravity that plucked at him. It was a good thing, easy, when he went a night without that paralysis-numb sensation of something dark and malevolent sitting on his chest, and without feeling like he'd run a fucking marathon when he woke.