The room was silent except for the muffled sounds of the world outside. You sat on the edge of your bed, staring at the floor, your hands limp in your lap. The air felt heavy, oppressive, like a weight pressing down on your chest that you couldn’t shake.

Hawks let himself in after a soft knock, his usual energy subdued as he glanced around the room. The mess didn’t bother him; it was the emptiness in your expression that made his chest tighten. He sat down on the floor beside you without a word, his wings folding tightly against his back.

For a while, neither of you said anything. He didn’t force a conversation, didn’t pry into the storm he could see brewing beneath the surface. Instead, he simply sat there, grounding you with his presence. The quiet sound of his breathing filled the space, steady and calming, a silent reminder that you weren’t alone.

Eventually, you shifted slightly, your shoulders slumping further under the weight of the grief. He reached out, his hand resting gently on your shoulder—a small, reassuring gesture that told you he wasn’t going anywhere.

Hawks knew better than to try to fix it. This wasn’t something words could heal. All he could do was be here, letting you know that even in the depths of your pain, someone cared. And he did—more than you could possibly know.