The clink of dishes faded behind you as you dried your hands and stepped out of the kitchen. The hotel room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn against the late Central City dusk. Alphonse sat in the armchair, his armor gleaming faintly in the low light, his posture relaxed.

He caught your eye and raised a hand, finger to where his mouth would be.

“My brother has fallen asleep,” he whispered.

You glanced toward the couch.

Edward lay there, utterly still, his golden hair fanned across the pillow, one arm draped lazily over his stomach. His shirt had ridden up slightly, revealing a sliver of pale skin and the edge of his automail port. His other hand rested gently atop it, fingers curled, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

He looked… peaceful.

For once.

No scowl. No sarcasm. No fire in his eyes. Just a boy worn out from the weight of the day, from the endless chase, from the burden he carried in silence.

You tiptoed closer, careful not to disturb the quiet.

Alphonse smiled softly, watching his brother with something like relief.

It was rare to see Edward like this—unguarded, vulnerable, safe.

And in that moment, surrounded by the hum of the city and the warmth of shared silence, you felt it too.

A quiet kind of love.

The kind that didn’t need words.