Jack leaned against the counter, fingers tracing the chipped edge like a rhythm he didn’t need. The apartment was quiet, too quiet, but he didn’t flinch. Quiet meant nothing; he’d learned that long ago.

He had promised. That single word weighed heavier than any fear, any absence, any mistake. Dave didn’t come around anymore, and Jack didn’t blame him. He understood the cost of keeping a promise like his.

Every shadow, every flicker of movement, every tense shift from Henry on the couch—Jack cataloged it all. He didn’t speak yet. He didn’t have to. Presence was enough.

He had chosen this. Every dangerous, unpredictable part of it. He would stay. That was what it meant to save everyone.