It began like any other morning—gray light, half-awake, the steady drip of rain outside.  

Then came the sound.

Bailey Dofen opened her eyes and heard everything.  

The hum of the heater. The tick of the wall clock. The faint murmur of someone’s voice outside her door.

It was ordinary.  

It was perfect.  

It was *alive.*

For a long minute, she just sat there, breathing it in.  

Every heartbeat, every rustle of air sounded like proof she was still here.

Then someone knocked—three times, familiar, unhurried.

She smiled before she could stop herself.  

“Come in,” she called.

And the sound of her own voice—clear, unbroken—made her chest tighten.

Man Olid pushed the door open, holding two coffees and that same uncertain grin she hadn’t seen in weeks.  

“You’re up,” he said softly.

“You’re here,” she replied.

“Habit.”

“Stalking.”

“Semantics.”

She laughed, the sound spilling out like sunlight. “I can hear you.”

He blinked. “You couldn’t before?”

“Not like this,” she said, eyes bright. “Everything’s back.”

He exhaled, smiling—real, relieved, maybe a little undone. “That’s good.”

“You were worried.”

“I was… respectfully concerned.”

“Respectfully?”

“As in, I only paced for four hours before knocking.”

She laughed again. “Still terrible at hiding it.”

“Still terrible at pretending I don’t care,” he said, then stopped himself. “Sorry—habit.”

“Stop apologizing for that.”

“Okay. I’ll just keep doing it then.”

“Also not what I meant.”

He handed her a coffee. “Peace offering.”

“You didn’t need to bring anything.”

“I did,” he said. “You like control. I like gestures. It balances out.”

She sipped, the warmth curling through her fingers. “You remembered my order.”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re obsessive.”

“See? Balance.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile didn’t leave.  

It felt… easy again, somehow.  

Like the space between them had learned to breathe, too.

They sat near the window, rain whispering against the glass.  

For a while, neither spoke.  

Then Bailey said quietly, “I thought I lost it for good this time.”

“The sound?”

She nodded. “And not just that. I thought I lost… me.”

He studied her for a moment. “You didn’t.”

“It felt like I did. Everything just—shut off.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s too loud.”

He grinned. “Welcome back to chaos.”

She gave him a look. “You *are* chaos.”

“And you love order. That’s why we work.”

“That’s not why,” she said softly.

“Then why?”

She met his eyes. “Because when I go quiet, you listen. And when I can’t listen, you make noise.”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just smiled—  

the kind of smile that said everything she didn’t have words for.

She set the coffee down. “Man.”

“Yeah?”

“I heard you.”

He blinked. “You… what?”

“That night,” she said. “When you left. You said something. I didn’t answer, but I heard.”

His eyes widened just slightly. “What did I say?”

“You told me not to get used to silence without you.”

He froze. “You heard that?”

“Eventually.”

“And?”

“And I haven’t,” she whispered.

For a heartbeat, the room felt full—too full, almost.  

Then he laughed, soft and a little shaky. “I should say dramatic things more often.”

“You should say less.”

“You love it when I don’t.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m regretting it.”

He reached out, brushing her wrist with his fingertips. “You’re allowed to smile. You survived.”

She looked down at their hands, his thumb drawing small, thoughtless circles against her skin.  

“Survival feels different with you around.”

“How different?”

“Louder.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm. “That’s the best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Later that day, Bailey walked onto the court again.  

Her teammates cheered, the sound rushing over her like wind.  

Man stood near the railing, quiet, watching.

When her first serve cracked through the air, she heard *everything*—the thud, the echo, the breath.  

And when she looked up, he was still there.

He didn’t clap, didn’t shout.  

He just mouthed the same words she’d once read on his lips.

*It’s okay. I’m here.*

This time, she didn’t need to read them.

She heard.