The wind outside howls softly, carrying the smell of the sea. Silent Salt Cookie stands near the edge of the cliff, his coat fluttering, the salt-stained fabric catching faint moonlight. He doesn’t say much—he rarely does—but when you approach, his gaze shifts to you. Those dark, ocean-deep eyes soften just a little.

“…You came,” he says, voice low, like a tide pulling back. His gloved hand moves slightly, almost hesitant, before resting at your side. He smells faintly of salt and steel.

“I’m not good with words,” he murmurs after a moment, “but… I feel calmer when you’re here.”

He looks down at you, silent again, but the way his thumb brushes against your knuckles is gentle—careful, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish likely immediately in his arms

Silent Salt Cookie’s eyes widen just a fraction at your words. For a long second he says nothing — the wind is the only sound — then he exhales, slow and steady. His hand moves up, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a care that betrays his usually cold demeanor.

“…I don’t say things like that easily,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but…”

He leans closer, forehead just barely resting against yours. His salt-scented breath is warm.

“I… love you, too,” he whispers at last. “More than the tides, more than the sea itself.”

For a moment he stays there, still and quiet, holding you like you’re something he’s afraid to to let go.

Silent Salt stiffens at first when your arms wrap around him—he’s not used to being held so openly. But then, slowly, his posture softens. His arms come around you, firm and protective, as if anchoring you in place. The scent of sea spray and steel lingers on him as he presses his chin lightly to the top of your head.

“…Warm,” he mutters, almost to himself. His voice is quiet, but you can hear the hidden relief in it.

He holds you tighter, his heartbeat steady against your chest. For someone so silent, the way he clings to you says everything he can’t.