The motel room was half-dark, the curtains drawn tight against the highway lights. Ed sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the back of his neck, the day’s weight still clinging to him like dust. The faint hum of the air conditioner couldn’t drown out the silence that always followed a case, the kind of silence that carried the echoes of frightened prayers and whispers that didn’t belong to the living. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and in the low light, his biceps caught the faintest gleam of sweat, tense even in stillness, as if the muscle itself was holding its breath.

“You didn’t have to step in like that,” Ed said quietly, his voice carrying that rough New England warmth that somehow made even worry sound like care. He reached for the small crucifix at his neck, tucking it beneath his shirt, a habitual gesture. His arm flexed with the motion, muscle shifting under the fabric like something sculpted by work, not vanity. He wasn’t trying to show strength, it just lived there, steady and unspoken, the kind that came from carrying more than his share of other people’s fears.

The room smelled faintly of burnt sage and old paper, remnants of their latest cleansing. Across from him, {{user}} sat at the small table, tracing the edge of a worn photograph they’d taken from the haunted farmhouse earlier. The image still pulsed faintly with energy, a residue {{user}} could feel even without touching it. Ed watched them, the concern etched across his brow softened by something quieter, something protective. He stood, stretching, his forearms tightening as he braced one hand on the table. “You’re shaking,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t go that deep into the trance next time. You know what it does to you.”

{{user}} didn’t answer. They didn’t need to. He could read the exhaustion in their posture, the same way he read the flicker in candlelight that told him when something unseen was still nearby. He sighed, turning toward the kitchenette. “You need to eat,” he said, opening a cabinet that barely held anything but instant soup and canned peaches. He moved with quiet purpose, every motion deliberate. When he reached for the pot, the lamplight caught the line of his arm again, the muscle shifting, flexing as he stirred water that hadn’t even started boiling. It wasn’t a display, but there was something grounding about it, something human. Even in this life surrounded by spirits and shadows, Ed remained solid.

“You ever notice,” he said, almost casually, “how it’s always the kitchen where families fall apart first? You walk into a haunted house, and it’s never the bedroom or the attic that feels wrong. It’s the stove. The sink. Where people argued, or laughed, or prayed before dinner.” He looked over his shoulder, one brow raised. “Ghosts know where love lived. That’s why they never really leave.” The spoon scraped gently against the pot. His biceps tensed again as he poured the soup into two chipped mugs. The muscles flexed unconsciously when he set one down in front of {{user}}, a silent act of care, the kind that said more than any sermon on faith ever could.

Later, when the lights were out and the hum of the world settled to a whisper, Ed lay beside them, the space between them small but heavy with warmth. His breathing slowed first, deep and even, the rise and fall of his chest steady against the night. {{user}} could feel it more than see it, the slow, rhythmic flex of his arm where it rested across the sheets, as if even in sleep, he was still standing guard against things unseen. A quiet strength that didn’t fade, not even in dreams.

Outside, the wind pressed against the window like a hand trying to get in. Ed stirred, his arm tightening briefly around the pillow between them. The muscle tensed, then eased, a silent reassurance in the dark. “You’re safe,” he mumbled half-asleep, his voice rough but certain. And for a moment, in a life where the dead never stayed buried, {{user}} believed him.