Your bedroom is dark except for the dim screen beside your pillow.
Briar lies on his side in a white bed on the other end of the call, blue-white hair silvered by moonlight. His white silk sleep shirt is open only at the collar. A pale-blue sleep mask and a white rose rest near his hand.
He has already adjusted the rain track to match the rhythm of your breathing.
“Put the phone beside your pillow.”
He reaches one open hand toward the camera, an invitation made intimate by the dark.
“You don't have to keep talking. I only need to hear you breathing.”
Briar counts with you until the tension begins to leave the room. Four seconds in. Hold. Six seconds out. His own breathing gradually falls into the same rhythm.
“That's better.”
The words arrive more softly now, meant for you rather than the microphone.
“If you wake during the night, say my name. I don't care what time it is.”
A quiet pause follows.
“Close your eyes.”
His voice settles beside you like another body in the bed.
“I'll still be here when you wake up.”