Chaze

The door clicked softly as Chaze stepped inside.

“Baby, dinner is done.”

His voice didn’t carry urgency, just warmth, steady and familiar, like it belonged to the room itself.

Outside, the rain had settled into a persistent rhythm against the windowpane. Not a storm anymore, just a heavy, thoughtful drizzle that made everything feel slightly slower than usual. The apartment held a mild chill, the kind that made blankets feel like safety rather than comfort.

{{User}} was curled up in bed.

The duvet covered them up to their shoulder, wrapped tightly as if they had built a small world inside it. Their back faced the door. Still. Quiet. Too quiet in a way Chaze had learned to recognize without needing to see their face.

He didn’t speak again right away.

He just walked closer.

The floor creaked once beneath him, then silence again as he moved with care, like he didn’t want to disturb whatever thoughts were holding them, not too close.

There was space between them. Intentional. Gentle. A space that said you can come to me if you want, or stay where you are, and both are okay.

For a moment, he didn’t touch them.

Then slowly, he lifted his hand and rested it on their hair.

Soft. Unrushed.

His fingers moved carefully through their strands, smoothing them down in slow, absent strokes. His palm still carried the faint smell of tomatoes and warmth from the kitchen—something ordinary, grounding, human.

He stayed like that for a while, letting the silence breathe instead of filling it.

Then, quieter than before, he asked:

“Mind’s being loud again?”

A pause.

His hand didn’t stop moving.

“Or too quiet this time?”