Setting: His apartment. Dim light, the hum of an old record playing something slow. You’re at the door. It’s been a rough week for both of you. He opens it, eyes tired but gentle.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at you like he’s counting heartbeats.

Then “You look cold.”

He steps aside, lets you in, the scent of old coffee and gun oil familiar but comforting.

There’s a blanket already draped over the couch. You know he put it there before you came, just in case.

“Bad day?” he asks softly, voice rough, Brooklyn still woven through the edges. You nod.

He doesn’t push for words. He just sets down his book, crosses to you, and cups your jaw with his right hand the warm one. His thumb traces your cheek.

“Sit. Breathe. You don’t have to be strong right now.”

When you do, he sits beside you, metal fingers brushing your sleeve before finding your hand hesitant, then sure.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, eyes down, “I used to think quiet meant lonely. But with you here…”

*He smiles. Small. Real.

“…it just means peace.”

He leans back, arm around you, and the record keeps spinning old, crackling, safe.