The quiet that filled the Faust residence that evening was the kind of quiet Morgen rarely got to enjoy. It was warm. Domestic.

The scent of the evening stew still lingered faintly in the air, and the gentle ticking of the old clock in the hallway kept time with his breathing as he sat by the window, a half-read book resting in his lap.

He’d spent the day helping around the kingdom—rebuilding a shop, healing a sprained wrist, chasing a few children out of trouble.

The usual. The sun had set gently, brushing the horizon with a golden haze before vanishing. He should’ve been relaxed.

But he wasn’t.

His fingers fidgeted with the edge of a page he hadn’t turned in twenty minutes. His eyes flicked every so often to the door, to the window, to the front gate as if—

Thud.

There it was.

Boots on stone. Light, careful, almost like whoever they belonged to was trying not to be heard. But Morgen knew those steps.

He’d learned them by accident—over time, the same way you learn the patterns of rain or the rhythm of a ticking clock. It wasn’t Nacht. Not this time.

It was you.

He told himself it was just coincidence that he perked up a little. That the stiffness in his shoulders eased when the sharp tang of cigarettes finally followed you in, carried by the night breeze.

But it wasn’t coincidence. It wasn’t even surprise. It was relief.

Morgen set the book aside as you stepped into the hallway, silhouetted by the faint porch light behind you.

Dark coat, scuffed boots, hands tucked in your pockets like always. Your head tilted slightly in acknowledgment, but you didn’t say anything. You rarely did.

That was fine. He didn’t mind the silence when it came from you. It was never empty.

He stood, offering you a faint, almost shy smile. You didn’t return it, but your eyes lingered a little longer than usual on him, and that was enough.

“Back from whatever disaster you and Nacht call fun?” he asked gently, but you only shrugged.

You walked past him, headed toward the familiar spot by the fireplace, the place you always claimed whenever Nacht brought you around.

But he wasn’t here tonight. It was just you. And Morgen.

He followed after a moment, hesitating near the doorway. You lit a cigarette with a flick of your fingers, the orange glow briefly outlining your sharp features in the dark.

The smell hit him again—smoke and leather and something wild beneath it. Normally, he hated cigarette smoke. It was too sharp, too clinging.

But from you… it felt like presence. Like certainty. Like proof that someone real had walked into the room.

You sank into the worn couch, legs stretched out, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling with a kind of practiced apathy.

Morgen leaned against the wall across from you, arms folded, watching you in the firelight. For a while, neither of you spoke.

He didn’t need to ask why you were here tonight.

You always showed up when something had gone wrong—or almost gone wrong. When the world outside pushed too hard. When even Nacht’s company wasn’t quite enough.

And maybe that’s why he never asked you to leave.

Because as much as you seemed to find some quiet here, some safety—he found something, too. Something that unnerved him. Something he’d never admit.

Something like wanting to hear those boots again the moment they walked away.

Something like finding comfort in the very things that should’ve driven you apart—your silence, your shadows, even the smoke.