The world was quiet now. Too quiet.

You sat on the creaky couch of an abandoned safehouse, staring blankly at the cracked window. The fires had stopped. The screaming had faded. But the silence felt heavier than all of it.

Carlos came in through the door without a sound, setting his rifle down and peeling off his tactical vest with a tired grunt. He looked at you — hadn’t said a word yet, and still, you could feel the weight in his gaze.

You didn't turn. Just muttered, "How many made it out?"

A pause.

"Not enough."

The answer was honest. And it hurt.

Carlos walked over and sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched. You could smell ash and sweat on him. He hadn’t cleaned up yet. Neither had you.

"You did good back there," he said softly.

You let out a hollow laugh. "I didn’t save them. I just survived."

He shifted toward you, resting one arm across the back of the couch. You didn’t expect the way his hand found yours. Big, rough, warm. A quiet anchor.

"That’s all anyone could’ve done."

You finally looked at him. His curls were a mess, dark eyes rimmed with fatigue. But there was that look again — not pity, not sympathy. Just understanding.

And something else. Something gentler.

"You always carry too much," he murmured. "Even when it’s not yours to hold."

Your throat tightened. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and grounding.

"Let me carry it tonight."