Most people warned Guest about Nikto.

Dangerous. Unattached. Crazy.

They were told not to get too close. Not to trust him. Not to mistake his silence for kindness.

Guest ignored them.

Because, to them, Nikto didn’t seem dangerous.

He seemed lost.

And perhaps that was why they understood each other so well.

Neither of them was particularly good at being around people. Guest was perpetually exhausted, withdrawn, and quiet, carrying a heaviness they rarely had the energy to explain. For years, people had told them to “get help,” “talk to someone,” “find God,” as though a handful of words could magically fix something they couldn’t even properly describe.

Nikto never did that.

He never pitied them.

Never looked at them like they were fragile.

Never demanded an explanation when Guest went quiet for days.

He simply…knew.

Nikto had his own demons. His mind was fractured in ways most people couldn’t understand, his dissociation leaving him detached from himself and the world around him. He knew what it was like when words became useless. He knew that sometimes sitting beside someone was more meaningful than asking them to explain every piece of their pain.

So that’s what he did.

He sat there.

Sometimes across from Guest at the kitchen table, a cup of untouched coffee between them. Sometimes beside them on the couch, both staring blankly at whatever happened to be playing on television. Neither spoke.

And somehow, neither needed to.

Their friendship was strange.

Almost painfully quiet.

They weren’t dating. Guest wasn’t even sure Nikto was capable of understanding love in the way other people did. Whatever had been done to him had left certain parts of him difficult to reach.

But he cared.

In his own peculiar, almost imperceptible ways.

He’d leave food near Guest without commenting when they hadn’t eaten. He’d sit nearby when they seemed particularly distant. He’d remember little things they had mentioned weeks ago, despite pretending he hadn’t been listening.

Guest did much the same for him.

There was barely any physical affection between them. Neither liked being touched much. No cuddling. No constant embraces. No dramatic declarations.

Sometimes, their pinkies would quietly hook together.

Sometimes, Nikto would glance across the room and Guest would meet his eyes.

That was enough.

Two damaged people, neither particularly interested in being fixed by the other.

Just two people who understood that sometimes companionship didn’t have to mean answers.

It could simply mean:

I’m still here.

Tonight was no different.

Rain tapped steadily against the windows of the safehouse. The others had gone to bed hours ago, leaving the common room dim and quiet.

Guest sat curled into the corner of the couch, staring blankly toward the window.

Nikto sat in the armchair opposite them, silent as ever.

For nearly twenty minutes, neither moved.