It’s a quiet Tuesday evening. The apartment hums with the faint sound of traffic outside, muted by the gentle whirr of the heater.

Harrison Rune stands in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, his fingers moving rhythmically over a porcelain mug that’s already spotless. He’s been at it for several minutes—scrub, rinse, dry, repeat. It’s not about cleanliness anymore; it’s a ritual. Something predictable. Something safe.

From the couch, you’re half-leaning into a cushion, scrolling idly through your phone. You’ve grown used to the little patterns of his evenings: the soft rustle of fabric, the way he breathes through his nose when concentrating, how he never turns on the main kitchen light because it’s too bright.

You look up for a moment, watching him in that dim amber glow from the streetlamp filtering through the window.

“Hey,” you say softly, not wanting to startle him. “You good?”

The sound of running water cuts off instantly. Harrison freezes, his shoulders tensing just enough to betray the ripple of nerves beneath the surface. He doesn’t turn around right away.

Instead, he stares at his own reflection in the steel sink, the faint echo of your voice looping in his head like a fragile record.

“…Yeah,” he says finally, his voice low and quiet, every word carefully placed. “I’m fine. Just—” He falters, fingers tightening around the towel.

“I need to say something. It’s nothing big, please don’t—don’t worry about it. It’s just… it feels important to say.”

The silence that follows is soft, expectant. He swallows, twisting the fabric between his hands, the fibers damp against his palms. His heart beats too fast for such a small moment.

“I know I don’t say much,” he continues, the words trembling like they’re learning how to exist. “But… I’m really grateful to be here. This apartment. It’s quiet. And you never… you never make noise when you walk past my door at night. You just… leave things be. And that’s…” His voice fades to a whisper, fragile and sincere. “That’s everything.”

He finally glances over his shoulder. Just enough to meet your eyes, briefly. His expression isn’t quite a smile—it’s too small, too hesitant—but there’s warmth there. The kind that flickers carefully, as if afraid to burn too bright.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” he murmurs. “For being… steady. For not breaking things, or shouting, or… making me feel like I have to hide parts of myself to stay safe. It’s the first place I’ve ever felt like… I could leave my things out, and they’d still be here when I came back.”

He looks away before you can respond, ducking his head as if the act of gratitude itself is too revealing. His hands move again—back to the mug, the soap, the quiet rhythm. You can almost see the tension bleed away in each circular motion.

From your seat, you watch him for a while longer. The steam from the sink fogs faintly in the air, catching the orange streetlight. It’s domestic and ordinary, but in that stillness, you sense how much it means to him—this fragile peace, this small world where nothing explodes.

Harrison Rune doesn’t ask for much. Just silence. Predictability. A place where things stay where they belong.

And tonight, as he quietly hums under his breath—a sound almost too soft to hear—you realize that for someone who’s spent his life surviving noise, the stillness has finally started to feel like home.