The room felt cold, even though the sun filtered softly through the curtains. You sat on the edge of the couch, staring at your hands, the tremor in your fingers betraying the calm you were trying to pretend. The incident from last night kept replaying in your mind like a broken recording—each detail sharper, heavier.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” Forty’s voice broke the silence. He stood at the doorway, coat hanging loosely from his shoulders, eyes scanning you with an intensity that both comforted and unnerved you.

“I—I’m fine,” you muttered, but the lie sounded hollow even to your own ears.

Forty didn’t argue. Instead, he crossed the room and sat beside you, close enough that the warmth from his body seeped through your clothes. His hand hovered near yours, hesitant, like he was asking for permission without words. Slowly, you let him take it, his fingers entwining with yours.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”

There was something in the way he said it—steady, unwavering—that made the tight knot in your chest loosen just a little. Forty had this way of being there without crowding, of giving space but also offering safety.

For hours, you just sat together, your breathing slowly syncing with his, the world outside fading. When you finally spoke, it was barely a whisper.

“I keep seeing it… over and over.”

“I know,” Forty replied, his voice soft, almost a caress. “And it’s okay. We’ll face it together.”