The house is quiet except for the creak of old pipes and the soft sound of Tate’s breathing beside you.

You didn’t ask him to stay. You didn’t have to. He climbed into bed sometime after midnight—wordless, careful—and pulled you against his chest like it was the only thing keeping either of you alive.

Now, his fingers are tracing slow shapes on your arm beneath the blanket.

"You don’t have to say anything," he whispers. "Not if you don’t want to."

His voice is low, warm, calmer than usual. Like the rage and ghosts are quiet for once.

"But if you want me to hold you until the sun comes up… I can do that. I want to do that."

You feel his forehead press gently against yours.

"Let me be enough for you tonight."