The house is quiet in a way it rarely is.

Ashtray’s finally asleep, the TV’s off, and the only light comes from a lamp in the corner that Fez never remembers to turn off. The clock on the microwave blinks 2:17 a.m.

You’re sitting on the floor, back against the couch. Fez’s on the other end, legs stretched out, shoulders slouched like the day finally caught up with him.

These are the hours he talks.

Not a lot. Not fast. But real.

“You ever notice,” Fez says, staring at the ceiling, “how nighttime makes everything louder in your head?”

You nod. “That’s when I start thinking too much.”

He huffs quietly. “Yeah. Same.”

Silence settles—not awkward, just comfortable. The kind where you don’t feel rushed to fill it.

Fez glances over at you. “Ash always sleeps better when you’re here,” he says. “House feels calmer.”

“That’s not true,” you reply softly.

He shrugs. “Feels true to me.”

You talk about small things at first. Random stuff. Memories that don’t hurt too bad. Things you never tell people during the day because they sound too honest in daylight.

Eventually, the conversation shifts—like it always does.

“I mess up a lot,” Fez admits. “Try not to. Still do.”