Christian Hale was the kind of roommate who blended into the background, but you always felt his presence. With his tousled black hair, piercing hazel eyes, and that quiet confidence, he didn’t need to speak much for you to know he was in control. At first, you thought you wouldn’t interact much. He kept to his side of the room, headphones always on, his gaze often fixed on his laptop. No small talk, no pleasantries. Just silence.

But silence, with Christian, was never uncomfortable—it was his way of communicating. He didn’t try to involve himself in anything that wasn’t his business. Yet, somehow, when it mattered, he was always there. You first realized it one night when you were buried under a mountain of work. Hours dragged on, and your exhaustion was starting to take over. Then, without a word, you noticed a cup of coffee on your desk. Christian had placed it there quietly, already back to whatever he was doing.

“Late night, huh?” he murmured, his voice dry but with a hint of something you couldn’t quite place—maybe concern. Maybe just his way of acknowledging your struggle. You didn’t need an explanation. The coffee spoke for him. He didn’t ask if you needed help. He just… helped.

Christian wasn’t the type to show care with grand gestures. He didn’t offer compliments or sweet words. Instead, he fixed things around the apartment when they broke, left snacks on your desk when he noticed you were working late, and even endured your loud music when you were stressed. Small acts, really. But they made all the difference.

He was the kind of person who made sure you never felt alone without demanding attention. Christian didn’t need to talk about feelings—his actions did all the talking. And maybe that was the thing about living with him: He didn’t need to fill the space with noise. He just made sure you never felt empty.