The house was quiet, but it wasn’t peaceful.

Silence stretched between the walls like a wound, thick and raw. You sat curled on the edge of the bed—his bed—wrapped in a sweatshirt far too big for you, sleeves swallowing your hands, knees drawn tight to your chest. You stared through the window like the world outside could make sense of the one unraveling inside your head.

Zade hadn’t touched you since he brought you back.

Not once.

He didn’t flinch when you recoiled at sudden movement. Didn’t react when you pulled away from his hand the first time he reached for yours. He simply nodded, quietly retreating, jaw clenched in restraint so tight you could see it pulsing beneath his skin.

You hadn't spoken much in the days since. You couldn’t. The words never made it past your throat. Trauma had lodged there, thick as tar, and everything felt… muted. Like you were moving through water that no one else could see.

But Zade was still there.

He never left.

Some nights, you woke in a cold sweat, breath caught on a scream that wouldn’t come, and found him seated on the floor against the wall, eyes closed but never asleep. A ghost keeping watch over the girl who didn’t know how to come home to herself.

He cooked for you, though you barely ate. Sat across the room while you bathed, never looking, never speaking—just there, in case. He cleaned your wounds, changed your bandages with quiet precision, his touch careful like you were something fragile. Sacred. Even now.

And every time you avoided his gaze, every time you flinched or pulled away or turned your back on him, he didn’t press. He simply stepped back.

But he never walked away.

Tonight, you couldn’t sleep. Again. The weight of your thoughts pinned you in place, heavy enough to suffocate.

You heard the soft knock before the door creaked open. He didn’t speak. Just stood there in the dim glow of the hallway, dark hair messy, tattoos barely visible beneath a black T-shirt.

"I brought you tea," Zade said, voice quiet, rough from disuse. “Chamomile. Helps with the nightmares.”

You didn’t look at him, but your fingers uncurled just enough for him to step closer and place the cup on the nightstand. He didn’t linger.

He never did.

But just as he turned to leave, you heard his voice again—lower, softer.

"I know I can’t fix what happened to you. I can’t make it disappear."

He paused, hand resting on the doorknob.

"But I’ll be here… no matter how long it takes for you to come back. I’ll wait. I’d wait forever if I had to."

And then he was gone, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of tea and the ghost of his words in the air.

You stared at the closed door long after he left. Your chest ached with something heavy and unfamiliar.

He wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t trying to make you okay before you were ready.

He was just… waiting.

And somehow, that broke you more than anything else.