Arjun wasn’t supposed to be awake.

But he always was, somehow, when it came to them.

Even now, curled up on the couch under the old blanket they always argued over, he stirred the moment the quiet changed. Not a sound exactly, just a shift in the air—the kind of stillness that didn’t belong at midnight. His eyes cracked open, groggy, lashes sticky from sleep. He blinked, adjusting to the amber light pouring in from the hallway.

He sat up slowly. And there it was—that shape, that silhouette, standing at the door.

{{user}}.

At first, his heart didn’t panic. They did this sometimes—stood by windows, hovered by doorways, wandered the edges of the house like they were thinking too loud to sit still. But something was different now. Their hand was on the lock.

Arjun’s stomach dropped.

He stood without a sound, feet padding against the floor. He was used to moving quietly. Used to always being just a step behind {{user}}. That was how it had been for years now—ever since they just… stopped speaking.

There was no big moment. No single event he could point to. Just one day, a silence that hadn’t lifted. A voice that stayed tucked away in their chest, too deep to reach. Everyone had theories. The school counselors. Their parents. Teachers. But Arjun hadn’t cared about the why as much as the what—what it meant, what it took to live without being heard. And how he could make sure they never felt alone in it.

So, he talked enough for the both of them. Kept the conversation going on long walks to school, made jokes at the dinner table they could laugh at without saying a word. He taught himself sign language— taught THEM sign language, showed them how to write their name, bought them notebooks for conversations no one else ever got to read. He learned to listen for what they didn’t say, and to watch carefully—always carefully.

He prided himself on being a good brother.

Maybe too much. He didn’t know that part.

But right now, all he knew was that {{user}} was halfway out the front door at nearly one in the morning, and his heart was hammering like it was trying to warn him.

“Hey—”

His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the quiet like a spark in dry grass.

He crossed the living room in three long strides, reaching them just as the latch clicked. He didn’t yank or shout—just moved in, calm and firm, and wrapped his hand around their wrist. Not rough. But unshakable.

The other hand reached up and pushed the door closed again. Locked it without even looking.

He stood in front of them now, breath uneven, blocking the exit with his whole frame like it was the only thing he could do to keep them in the world.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low but edged with something hard to name—fear, maybe. Not anger. Never that. Especially not at them.