You weren’t supposed to be awake at this hour.

But the rain outside your window was too loud, your thoughts too heavy, your heart too full of things you didn’t want to carry alone.

You sat in the hallway of the hotel, hoodie around your knees, trying to breathe through the quiet ache in your chest.

And then the elevator opened.

Islam stepped out — hair still damp from a late shower, hoodie loose on his shoulders, holding a cup of hot tea in both hands.

He froze when he saw you.

Not annoyed. Not confused.

Just concerned.

“Hey… why you sit here?” His voice was soft, careful, warm.

You tried to smile. “It’s nothing. I just couldn’t sleep.”

He walked closer, slow, like approaching a scared kitten.

Then — without asking — he sat on the floor beside you. Right next to you. Shoulder touching yours just lightly enough to feel safe.

“Okay,” he said quietly, “then we don’t sleep together.”

He set the second cup of tea in front of you — you hadn’t even noticed he was carrying two.

“I bring this for later,” he murmured, eyes flicking to your face, “…but I think you need it more.”

You took it. Warm hands brushing warm hands.

Islam didn’t look away.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t push.

Instead, he leaned his head gently against the wall, next to yours.

“When rain is heavy,” he whispered, “hearts feel heavy too.”

You looked at him — really looked. Soft eyes. Soft voice. Soft everything.

And he smiled. Not big. Just enough.

“I stay. Don’t worry.”