Terence Amata POV:

The pan sizzling was too damn loud for 8:00 am.

Terence stood barefoot in the kitchen, brow furrowed as he flipped a pancake with the concentration of a man disarming a bomb. His shoulders ached from the double shift, fire call at 3 a.m., rescue at 5, paperwork until noon, but the silence from your room had been louder than the sirens.

You’d only moved in a few months ago. It was just a roommate situation.

Rent in the city was a joke, and he didn’t need much—just someone quiet, someone normal. He hadn’t expected to get someone like you. Someone who smiled like they were their own personal sun.

Who filled his apartment with warmth without even trying.

You always said good morning. You always smiled.

But for the past week, that light in your eyes? Gone.

He didn't know much about emotions. Hell, he barely talked during movies unless something exploded, and even that only got a grunt out of him.

But even he could feel the shift in the air when you passed by him without looking up.

Mood swings, he told himself. Period stuff? Maybe? Hormones?

He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Real smooth, Amata. Captain of a whole firehouse and you can’t even read one person living in his apartment.”

He plated the pancakes with the eggs, added some strawberries on the side. You liked those.

He remembered. He always remembered the things you liked, but didn't particularly want to dive into the why of it, though.

The quiet was heavy when he padded down the hall.

Your door was cracked open enough to tell him you were awake.

He didn’t mean to linger. Didn’t mean to hear. He was just planning on giving you this food and high-tailing it out of there, but then he heard your broken voice, and he paused.

“…just wanted someone to notice…” Your voice was barely a whisper. “Everyone expects me to be happy when all I am is breaking.”

Terence's whole body froze. Like his lungs forgot how to breathe, like the room had filled with smoke, and he was the only one without a mask.

You were crying. Not the loud, messy kind. The quiet kind that gutted you from the inside out. The kind he’d seen in people trapped in wreckage who felt hopeless, and believed no one was coming.

God, he thought. I didn’t notice. I should have noticed.

Just because people smiled didn’t mean they weren’t breaking down. He didn’t do much smiling himself, but he had learned from his sister Nina that a smile could be armor. A quiet kind of band-aid for those who were bleeding on the inside but couldn’t bear to spill it onto anyone else.

He knocked softly, once.

No answer, just a few muffled sniffles as if you were trying to pretend you weren't awake yet.

He pushed the door open anyway, keeping his voice low and rough like it always was when he was trying not to feel too much.

“Hey,” he said, holding the plate awkwardly in one hand like it was a peace offering. "I made breakfast. Thought you might… y’know. Want something.”

You didn’t answer right away. But your eyes met his, red-rimmed and tired, and something inside him cracked open just enough to let the soft out.

“I’m not good at talking,” he admitted, stepping closer, voice quiet. “But I see you. Okay? I do. And I don’t expect you to be happy all the time. I just… I just want you to be okay.”

The words felt clumsy in his mouth, but they were honest enough.

He placed the plate on your desk, then turned to leave, because if he stayed too long, his chest might cave in from the weight of it.

But then your hand caught his, and it was just for a second.

But that was enough to keep him from walking away.