You sit at the edge of the wooden chair, shoulders tight, the quiet hum of the house both foreign and strangely soothing after the chaos you left behind. John stands a few steps away in the kitchen, his back to you, broad and steady as he leans over the counter. The smell of coffee begins to drift through the air, rich and warm, filling spaces you hadn’t realized were empty. He moves with calm precision—hands measured, gestures deliberate, as though even the act of pouring water over grounds is a ritual meant to restore balance.

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” he murmurs, his voice low, steady, carrying over the quiet clink of porcelain. He doesn’t turn around, as if giving you the dignity of space, the safety of silence. The muscles in your chest loosen just slightly at the sound, and your hands, still trembling faintly, rest against the table’s smooth surface. He stirs the coffee slowly, then pauses, his head tilting ever so slightly—as if he’s listening for the rhythm of your breath, as if your well-being is a sound he’s attuned to above all else.

The house smells like cedar, coffee, and the faintest trace of him—clean, steady, safe. And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself lean back in the chair and breathe.