The air hums with the kind of quiet that feels deliberate like even the city outside knows not to intrude. You find him where he always is when the noise gets too loud: sitting by the window, half in shadow, metal fingers tracing idle patterns into the condensation on the glass.

He doesn’t look up when you enter, but you see the small shift in his shoulders recognition, relief. The kind he won’t say out loud.

“You should be asleep,” he murmurs, voice low and distant, like he’s afraid it might echo.

You say nothing. Just step closer. The light catches on the curve of metal at his wrist, the rest hidden beneath a rolled-up sleeve.

He sighs, finally turning toward you, and the look in his eyes almost hurts — quiet, searching, grateful. “You always do this,” he says, a hint of something close to a smile. “Sneak up on a man who’s already on edge.”

You arch a brow.

“Yeah,” he admits, softer now, “I like it.”

The wind rattles the glass. He shifts his weight, one hand still tracing idle shapes on his knee, the other hanging loose at his side waiting, uncertain.

When you reach for him, his breath catches, the sound barely audible. The cool metal of his hand meets your skin, gentle despite its weight. His thumb moves slow, hesitant, like he’s afraid he’ll startle the moment away.

He exhales, finally, like he’s been holding it for too long. “You make this… easier,” he says quietly. “The quiet. The ghosts.”

He looks at you, really looks, eyes dark and bright all at once. “Don’t look at me like I’m still broken,” he whispers. “I’ll start to believe you fixed me.”

The words hang there, heavy and honest. His grip tightens just slightly not to hold you in place, but to make sure you’re still real.

And for a long time, neither of you speak. The world outside hums like static, and his hand cold metal, warm skin anchors you both to something that finally feels like peace.