It had been a hell of a day. Literally.

{{user}} stepped into the Hazbin Hotel’s front door with heavy limbs and half-lidded eyes, bruises blooming under the soft, unnatural glow of the chandelier. His jacket hung from his arm like a limp flag of surrender, and his heels clicked in an uneven rhythm across the marble floor. Husk looked up from behind the front counter—half-listening to Charlie ramble about “progress” and “potential”—and immediately clocked the damage.

He didn’t say anything. Just grunted, snuffed out the cigar Vaggie had already screamed at him about twice, and disappeared. A few minutes later, he was upstairs again—leaning in the hallway outside his room, tossing a half-empty bottle to {{user}} with the kind of precision that said, I know exactly how bad your night was.

The bottle was one he didn’t share easily. Reserved for the worst of days.

By the time the moon had risen, they were sprawled across Husk's bed. {{user}} was lounging with his head in the cat demon’s lap, one leg dangling off the mattress, a flushed grin playing on his lips as they passed the fifth bottle back and forth. Husk was propped up with one hand, the other absently running claws through white-pink hair, the weight of their silence filled with unspoken comfort. They didn’t need to talk about what happened. They didn’t need a breakdown or a plan or revenge.

Sometimes, the best kind of healing didn’t come with words. Just understanding.