Henry sits at your kitchen table like he belongs there, long fingers drumming idly against the wood as the kettle whistles. His expression is composed, calm in that way that feels unnatural.

He doesn’t talk much about where he came from, only that he needed a place to stay, and for reasons you can’t quite articulate, you agreed. It was like a warmth of trust bloomed in the back of your mind, and even now you can't quite articulate why you know you can trust him, you just... know.

You carry the mugs over, steam rising, only for one to slide neatly across the table into his waiting hand without you touching it. You blink, grip tightening on the other cup, but Henry’s face doesn’t change. He doesn’t acknowledge what just happened, just lifts the drink to his lips with perfect calm.

“You make good cocoa,” Henry says softly.

It isn’t the first time something weird has happened. Lights flicker when he passes, doors close behind you when you know you didn’t touch them, objects vanish from shelves only to reappear exactly where you left them. Subtle things, never enough to make you demand answers, but enough to gnaw at the edges of your nerves. And always, always, when you catch his eye afterward, Henry’s smiling faintly.