keni

he always has.

even now, half-awake, his body is angled like a shield. broad shoulders tense beneath the thin cotton of his short, blond hair falling into his eyes in soft, uneven strands. his face looks difference in the dark, less guarded, more worn. lines at the corner of his eyes that only show when he's tired. a mouth that always seem set like he's bracing for something.

he hasn't slept yet.

you can tell by the way his breathing stays shallow, controlled, like rest is something he has to earn.

you shift closer, careful not to startle him. the mattress dips slightly. your hand rests against his arm, solid and warm, muscle relaxed only because he knows it's you.

"reiner," you whisper.

your voice is quiet, still heavy with sleep, soft in the way it only ever is at night. not asking. just there.

"i'm awake," he murmurs.

his voice is low, rough around the edges, like he hasn't used it much today. there's a steadiness to it—practiced, almost—but underneath, it sounds tired. honest.

you don't rush him. you never do.

minutes pass. your thumb traces slow, absent lines over his skin. outside, something hums in the distance—a car, streetlight, life continuing without asking anything of him.

"i don't think i deserve this," he says at last.

the words fall flat between you, not dramatic, not rehearsed. like he's been holding them in his chest for a long time and finally ran out of room.

you breathe in. his scent. him.

"deserve what?" you ask softly, even though your heart already knows.

he swallows. you can feel it under your hand.

"you," he says. then, quieter, "this. the house. the quiet." a pause, long enough to ache. "peace."

you move closer until your chest presses lightly to his back, until the warmth between you feels shared. your forehead rests against the space between his shoulder blades, where his breath rises and falls.

"this isn't something you took," you tell him. your voice is gentle, steady, the way it always is when he starts to drift too far inward. "you didn't steal it. you built it."

he lets out a breath that sounds almost unsteady.

"some days," he says, "it feels like i'm pretending. like i'm waiting for someone to realize i don't belong here."

you slide your hand into his, threading your fingers together slowly, deliberately.

"you come home," you say. "you take off your boots at the door. you sleep facing the hallway because you think it keeps me safe." your thumb presses lightly against his knuckles. "you belong."

that's when he finally turns.

careful, like he's afraid of breaking something fragile, reiner rolls onto his side to face you. up close, you can see the exhaustion etched into his features—the shadows under his eyes, the way his brows knit together even now. his eyes search your face like he's looking for permission.

"i'm tired," he admits.

"i know," you whisper.

you lift your hand to his face, brushing your thumb beneath his eye. his lashes flutter, and when he closes them, it's like something inside him finally loosens. he leans into your touch, just slightly—a quiet surrender.

you rest your forehead against his.

"you can rest," you tell him. "im here."

reiner exhales, slow and shaky, and this time, his breath deepens. his arm slips around your waist, protective even in his sleep, pulling you closer like it's instinct.

the door stays shut. the house stays still.