The storm rattled the safehouse windows.

Thunder rolled like distant artillery, low and endless. You didn’t sleep — not after what you'd seen that day. Not after the things you had to do.

The kitchen light was on.

You padded in barefoot, shirt clinging to your skin, collarbone still sticky from blood you hadn’t scrubbed off completely.

Barry was at the counter. Mug in hand. Wearing that damn worn-out flannel again — the one with a tear at the shoulder he still hadn’t mended.

He looked over. Nodded once.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, voice like gravel soaked in honey.

You shook your head and opened the cabinet for a second mug.

He poured for you without asking.

No small talk. Just quiet company in the hum of the night.

You sat across from him at the kitchen table. The clock read 2:11 AM. Rain tapped on the glass like fingers too polite to break it.