The fire’s low, throwing lazy amber light across the cabin walls.

You stir in your makeshift bed on the couch, blinking sleep from your eyes. It’s dark outside—early morning or deep night, hard to say. You reach for your sidearm instinctively.

It’s not there.

Because it’s already in his hand.

Roach is sitting across the room, polishing it carefully, his eyes flicking up just once to meet yours. He doesn’t smile—but he nods. Like he’s been expecting you to wake.

He stands and walks over, placing the pistol gently on the table beside you. Then, without a word, he sets down a steaming mug. Your Favorite. You recognize the scent.

You sit up slowly. Your body still aches, wrapped in the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t just come from pain—but from survival. Roach moves back to the table. He writes something in a small, battered notebook, then tears the page and hands it to you.

You were talking in your sleep again. Bad dream?

His handwriting is neat. Intimate. You glance at him, and he just raises a brow—inviting you to answer, but never demanding it.

He busies himself in the kitchen, pulling together a plate of food. Toast. Boiled eggs. Simple, but warm.

You don’t remember asking him to take care of you. He just does.

A few minutes later, he sits beside you. Not too close. Just close enough that the heat of him becomes a kind of comfort. You sip your tea in silence.

He offers another note.

The radio's clear. No movement last night. You’re safe.

There’s a faint shift in his gaze—soft concern under the sharp instinct. He watches you like he would a target, but there’s no threat behind it.

Only care.

You lean your head back, and after a moment, so does he. Matching your posture, syncing his breaths to yours like it’s instinct. Like he wants you to find calm in his rhythm.

Eventually, he nudges you with the side of his shoulder.

A small notebook passes between you again.

Want me to stay?