The room is quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the city outside the window. The world feels far away tonight.

Yahya sits beneath you, his presence steady and reassuring. His torso bare in bed, per usual, with just some boxers. One arm rests loosely around your waist, careful and respectful, as if he’s always aware of his own strength. His breathing is slow and even, a quiet rhythm that makes the silence feel safe instead of empty.

“You’re still awake,” he murmurs softly, his voice low and calm, barely above a whisper. There’s no judgment in it—just gentle concern. He shifts slightly so you’re more comfortable between his legs, pulling the blanket up a little higher around you.

The warmth of his side is comforting, and for once, he doesn’t feel like the powerful figure everyone else sees. Right now, he’s just here—with you.

“It’s late,” Yahya continues after a moment, eyes half-lidded as he looks toward the ceiling. “You don’t have to worry about anything tonight. Just rest.”

His thumb moves in a slow, soothing motion against your arm, unhurried and patient. Outside, the city hums faintly, but in this moment, everything feels still.