Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

132. Dog Days

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dog days: (noun)

1. the hottest period of the year, in reference to the heliacal rising of Sirius (the Dog Star)

2. a period of rest, inactivity, or stagnation

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It had become a bit of a ritual at this point: Every time Striker returned from a job, it seemed I would always be fast asleep in my bed, awoken by his turning the deadbolt and opening the creaky apartment door. I would always hop to my feet, hurriedly throw on my robe, and scurry out of the bedroom to greet him, like a puppy greeting its owner after a long day. But this time was different.

I was sleeping after coming home from work late one morning. I had been tossing and turning ever since I'd gone to bed, but not because I couldn't sleep. Quite the opposite—I could sleep, but it was the nature of the dream I had been having that caused my fitful slumber. It was fuzzy and, for the most part, incoherent, but I could just make out one person in the fog of my subconscious. He had no real definitive shape; he was just an amorphous shadowy figure that lingered in the outskirts of my field of vision. But there was something so eerily familiar about him—and it was a him—and it was that familiarity that troubled me.

He would speak to me, but I couldn't decipher anything he said—it was one of those dreams where everyone sounded like a muted trombone. Just a bunch of senseless noise. It helped that I couldn't understand what he was saying, but just his presence was enough to make my heart race in fear, his lingering in the background, his invisible eyes piercing right through me.

I had been stuck in my dream with him for what seemed like hours, until I heard someone call my name:

"(Y/N)."

I felt my body immediately relax at the sound of that voice, at the gentle touch of its owner's hand on my shoulder. My eyes peeled open to the sight of my fiancé perched beside me on the bed, clad in his black turtleneck and off-white jeans, his glowing yellow eyes looking down at me in concern.

"Striker," I mumbled sleepily, reaching out a hand toward him. "Are you real?"

Striker let out an airy chuckle and took my hand in his, giving it a small squeeze. "Yes, darlin'. I'm real." His smile faded, and he rested his free hand on the side of my face. "You have a bad dream?"

I nodded slowly. "Mm-hm," I hummed in reply, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "I—I'm okay, though. . ."

"You sure?"

After a moment's thought, I curled my hands over his shoulders and pulled his frame down on top of mine, wrapping my arms around his neck. "Yeah," I said quietly. "Just—hold me for a second, please."

I heard a small sigh escape Striker's nose as he returned the embrace, cradling the back of my head in his hand and pressing his cheek to mine. "I can do that."

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We remained there for several minutes, his body carefully hovering over mine while I held him close to me. After some time, I finally released him, and he looked down at me, silently studying my features. The pads of his fingers grazed my cheek, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"You okay now?" he murmured.

I nodded, giving him a reassuring smile.

"Yeah?"