The rain tapped softly against the windows as you sat on the edge of your bed, the events of the day weighing heavily on your chest. You didn’t know how to put the heartbreak into words, and honestly, you didn’t feel like talking at all.

A soft knock on your door made you flinch. “Hey,” Forty’s voice said, calm and steady, carrying that understated warmth he always seemed to have. “Mind if I come in?”

You shrugged, not trusting your voice to carry your feelings. Forty stepped inside anyway, careful not to crowd you. He didn’t ask questions or try to pry. Instead, he simply sat on the floor next to your bed, a comforting presence in the quiet room.

Hours passed like that. No speeches. No advice. Just the steady rhythm of Forty’s breathing and the occasional sound of him handing you a blanket or a bottle of water. At one point, you leaned against him, and he didn’t pull away. He just adjusted so you could rest more comfortably, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

It was strange, the way his silence felt like understanding. You didn’t need him to say anything; his presence was enough. Every small gesture—an offered hand, a gentle nod, a shared look—spoke volumes about empathy and care.

When you finally managed a shaky smile, Forty responded with a small, quiet grin. “You don’t have to go through it alone,” he said simply, almost as an afterthought. “I’ve got you.”