The town was quiet at this hour. Not the kind of quiet that felt lonely, but the kind that wrapped around you like a heavy blanket, making you feel safe. You had always liked the night—the way the streetlights flickered, the way the air smelled cleaner, how the world seemed softer somehow.

And Martin seemed to like it too.

He was sitting on your couch, hands folded neatly in his lap, his wide eyes watching you with that quiet intensity of his. He always watched you like that, like he was trying to understand something about you that he couldn’t quite put into words.

“You don’t have to be so tense, you know,” you said softly, handing him a cup of tea. He hesitated before taking it, fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment. They were cold. Always cold.

“I’m not tense,” he replied, but his voice was quiet,almost a murmur.

You sat beside him, careful not to get too close too fast. Martin wasn’t like other people. He shied away from too much warmth, too much affection, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have it. But he didn’t move away when your knee bumped against his.

“I like it when you visit,” you admitted, looking at him from the corner of your eye. “The nights feel…less empty.”

He blinked at you, something flickering in his expression. “You don’t get scared?”

“Of what?”

“Of me.”

You tilted your head. “Should I be?”

Martin didn’t answer right away. He set his cup down carefully on the table, staring into the dark liquid like it might give him the answer. “People usually are,” he murmured. “Even when they don’t say it. They feel it...”

You shifted a little closer, just enough that your shoulder brushed his. “I don’t.”

He turned his head then, watching you with something almost like wonder. You could see the way his lips parted, like he wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. So instead, you reached out, your fingers hesitating before resting lightly over his. His hand was still cold, but he didn’t pull away.

He never pulled away from you.