Some days were loud. Today was silent—and somehow that was worse.

I didn’t bother with the lights when I stepped into {{user}}'s apartment. Didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. Just shut the door behind me and leaned against it like it might be the only thing holding me together.

The air smelled like her. Clean cotton. Citrus. That warm undercurrent of skin and something softer I couldn’t name. A scent I knew too well, and hated how much I missed.

It should’ve helped. It didn’t.

The day had gone sideways from the jump. Men in suits pretending to be dangerous, flashing fake smiles and real knives behind their backs. Paperwork stacked high—threats dressed up as contracts. Everyone calling it power, like the word meant something different to me.

I ran a hand down my face. Tried to scrape off the day, the tension, the weight pressing into my ribs like a blade.

Then—footsteps.

Soft. Steady.

{{user}} stepped into the room like she owned the silence. Barefoot, steady, eyes locked on me with that same unreadable calm that always made my chest tighten. She didn’t speak. Didn’t soften. Just stood there, watching, like she was waiting to see if I’d break first.

“Volkov.”

I stared at her, jaw tight. “Don’t ask, Lisichka.”

She didn’t.

She crossed the room, close enough that her warmth grazed mine. Took the empty mug from my hands and returned with tea—hot, no sugar. The way she always made it when I looked like this.

She didn’t try to fix me. Didn’t try to understand.

She just sat. Not touching, not speaking. Just there.

The silence wrapped around us, thick with everything we didn’t say. The kind that came after wars, after confessions. The kind that held weight.

Eventually, my shoulders dropped. The buzz in my head dimmed. I remembered how to breathe.

{{user}} wasn’t comfort. She wasn’t peace.

She was the place I went when I needed to stop bleeding the fuck out.

And tonight, that was enough.