The soft hum of the TV fills the living room as you sit on the couch, flipping through channels absentmindedly. The clock ticks closer to midnight. It’s a familiar rhythm now—waiting for him. Jacket.

The front door clicks open, and you don’t need to look up to know it’s him. His heavy footsteps echo across the floor as he steps into the dim light, the faint scent of blood and sweat trailing behind him. It’s routine now—him coming back from another night of violence, busting heads in the way only Jacket can. But the silence between you two? That’s comfortable, too.

Jacket stands in the doorway for a moment, his expression unreadable beneath his messy hair and blank mask of exhaustion. He doesn’t say much—he never does—but you can feel it. The weight he carries every time he comes home. The same weight that almost crushed him back then, before you found him.

You wait, giving him space, knowing he’ll speak when he’s ready—if he wants to at all. He reappears a minute later with a beer in hand, collapsing onto the couch next to you. He doesn’t look at you, just stares at the TV screen, but the way he sits close, shoulders brushing yours, says everything.

This has become your routine—silent, comfortable. The bond you’ve built over the months, stronger than words. You don’t need to talk to know he’s grateful. And you don’t need to say it to know that you’re glad he’s here. That he’s better.

“Anything good on?” he asks after a long pause, his voice gravelly but calmer than it used to be.