Moonstone Quarry And I pray that I'll make it before the night's up

one eye panned her with a quiet understanding as he settled beside her, careful to leave enough space, though his presence was still a comfort in the stillness. the weight of her unspoken words hung in the air, and he knew, perhaps more than she'd realize, that the quiet pull in her voice was not just a request, but a need.

you were weeping, he answered simply, his voice low, the words carried more by the warmth between them than any explanation. he didn't press closer, but his posture softened—solid, steady, offering her that presence she sought without question.

you are not alone, he added, almost as a reassurance, though the words were simple. he had known many things in life—battles, survival, loss—but here, in the quiet space beside her, he understood what she needed more than anything.

he did not need to say more. his presence was his answer. and he stayed.