Fading Lines | (Line Series, Book 1) ✔️

chapter fifteen: beneath the surface

—Beneath the Surface

➳ Brooklyn Brody

     The city lights flickered beyond Dylan's penthouse windows, casting long shadows over the room as I padded softly toward the kitchen. I had woken up in the middle of the night, my throat dry, the warmth of the bed quickly replaced by the cool, crisp air of his apartment. The sounds of the city—distant honking, the occasional siren—felt oddly comforting as I poured myself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, glancing at the view outside.

Just as I was about to head back to bed, I heard something—a low murmur, almost like a groan. It was coming from Dylan's room. I paused, the glass halfway to my lips, listening carefully. Another sound followed, sharper this time, more pained.

I set the glass down and walked slowly back to his bedroom, my pulse quickening. The sight of him caught me off guard—Dylan, who was always so composed, so in control, was tossing in his sleep, his face twisted in distress. His hands gripped the sheets tightly, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

"Dylan?" I whispered, unsure of what to do.

He didn't wake, only muttered something incoherent, his expression contorting further as if he was fighting off some unseen force. I hesitated for a moment longer, but seeing him like this—so vulnerable—made something in me stir. Carefully, I moved closer and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Dylan," I said softly, trying not to startle him. His body jerked awake, his eyes wide and disoriented, still lost in whatever nightmare had taken hold of him. For a second, he looked like he didn't recognize where he was.

"Hey, it's okay," I said, keeping my voice calm, though my heart was racing. "It's just a bad dream."

He blinked, his breath still ragged, and I could see him slowly coming back to the present. His chest heaved, and he ran a hand through his hair, clearly shaken. I stayed by his side, unsure of what to say or do but not wanting to leave him alone like this.

"You okay?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Dylan exhaled, leaning back against the headboard. "Yeah," he muttered, though his voice sounded far from convincing. "Just... nightmares. They happen sometimes."

I stayed quiet, sensing that he didn't want to get into the details, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched as if he was trying to shake off whatever darkness had plagued his dreams. Without thinking, I sat down beside him on the edge of the bed.

"You don't have to talk about it," I said softly, "but... I'm here."

For a long moment, he didn't respond. His eyes were trained on the window, where the lights of the city blinked back at us. Finally, he sighed, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable.

"It's from the past," he said. "Things I can't fix. Things I've messed up."

The admission hung between us, heavier than the silence. I wanted to ask more, to pry into what he meant, but something in his tone told me that this was already more than he usually revealed. Instead, I shifted closer, gently resting my hand on his.

"You're not alone," I said, the words feeling strange and foreign on my tongue, but true all the same. "Whatever it is... you don't have to go through it alone."

Dylan didn't say anything, but his grip tightened around my hand, grounding him. We stayed like that for a while, neither of us speaking, just sitting in the quiet. Eventually, his breathing slowed, the tension in his body easing. I watched as his eyes fluttered closed again, exhaustion winning out. He didn't let go of my hand, though, and I didn't pull away.