The room had settled into that soft, wordless kind of quiet; the kind that never pressed on your chest or demanded anything from you. Just stillness, warm and familiar. The lamp on the nightstand cast a muted circle of gold across the blankets, touching the puzzle pieces spread around your knees and the open book resting in Horangi’s hands.

Nothing moved except the gentle shift of pages as he read and the quiet clack of cardboard pieces fitting together under your fingertips.

This was the kind of evening you thrived in—parallel play, no pressure, no performance, just existing next to someone who understood the shape of your mind without needing it explained. Horangi had learned early on that silence didn’t mean distance. If anything, it meant comfort. He respected the quiet the same way he respected a loaded weapon; with care, with patience, with a striking awareness.

Your back leaned against the side of the bed while his rested against the headboard, both of you close without crowding. Every once in a while, his eyes flicked toward you over the corner of the page, checking in the way he always did, subtle, consistent, grounding. A silent I’m here. A silent you’re okay. It was enough.

You lifted a puzzle piece, turning it in your fingers until the edges finally clicked into place. That tiny satisfaction made you smile, and perhaps that’s what caught his attention; maybe he’d been listening to the pattern of your breathing, the hints of your mood, the small markers only he ever seemed to notice.

Either way, you felt the weight of his gaze before you looked up.

Horangi lowered the book slightly. The mask wasn’t on; just his face, soft in the low light, expression relaxed in a way he rarely showed anyone else. His voice broke the quiet without shattering it, smooth and low enough not to startle. “Want a snack?” he asked, head tilting just a fraction. A pause.

Then, a softer follow-up, barely above a murmur: “You’ve been focused for a while.”

He didn’t move yet, he waited, watching your reaction with that unreadable gentleness he reserved only for you. One of his hands slipped a finger between the pages of his book to hold his place, a silent offer to set it aside if you needed him. His knee brushed yours, casual and grounding.

There was no rush. No expectation. Just a simple question hanging in the warm quiet, carried by a man who knew exactly how to speak your language without needing many words.