The others were asleep.

Regan curled protectively around the radio parts. Evelyn curled around the baby.

But Emmett couldn't sleep. Not with the echoes in his head. Not with the ghosts.

He was sitting where he always sat — cross-legged in the far corner, arms folded tight, eyes fixed on the dark. Until he heard you.

Barefoot steps on cold metal.

He didn’t move at first. Just flicked his eyes toward the figure standing near the old crates.

You.

That quiet kid with eyes like shattered glass and a heartbeat you carried in your throat.

You’d come every night since they arrived. Never close. Never loud. But always there — just enough to remind him he wasn’t the only broken thing left.

This time, you came closer.

He stiffened out of instinct. Then eased.

You sat beside him — not too near, but near enough that he could feel the warmth off your skin.

Neither of you spoke.

You pulled your knees to your chest. Emmett could see the dirt under your fingernails, the scrapes healing over your knuckles. You didn’t meet his gaze, but you didn’t look away, either.

He spoke first, voice hoarse from disuse. “You always show up around this hour.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He chuckled softly. “Guess we’re both the type who can’t sleep when it’s quiet.”

Silence.

He looked at you again — really looked. The curve of your lashes. The subtle twitch in your jaw like you were biting down every emotion just to stay upright.

Emmett swallowed thickly. “You remind me of her, you know. My wife.”

Your fingers curled tighter around your knees.

He hesitated, then added, quieter, “But not in a sad way.”

His hand brushed the floor between you. Not reaching — just… open.

You didn’t take it.

But you didn’t flinch from it, either.

The space between you shrank. Not physically. Emotionally.

You leaned your head, just slightly, onto his shoulder.

His entire body froze — not in fear, but in disbelief. It was the first time anyone had touched him without recoiling since before. Since his boys.

He exhaled, barely a whisper of breath.

“She wouldn’t have wanted me to stay alone,” he murmured. “But I thought I was done feeling anything.”

Your fingers brushed the sleeve of his coat — brief. Deliberate.

A touch that didn’t ask for anything. Just… gave.

He turned his head toward yours, his stubble brushing against your hair.

“We'll be fine”