A Thin Line Between Hate (Adrian Chase x reader)

The Sound of Silence

The coffee machine finished its cycle with a final, dripping sigh. I poured two mugs, the rich, bitter scent filling the space between us. When I walked back into the living room, he hadn't moved from his spot on the couch. He was still studying his hands as if they held the answers to all the questions he was too stubborn to ask.

I held a mug out to him. He took it, his fingers carefully avoiding mine this time. A deliberate act.

"Thanks," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. He took a sip, his eyes closing for a brief moment. "You make it better than I do."

It was the first normal, almost casual thing he'd ever said to me. No sarcasm, no competitive edge. Just a simple, tired observation. It felt more significant than any of his previous confessions.

I settled into the armchair, tucking my legs beneath me. The silence that descended wasn't the tense, waiting silence from before. This was different. Softer. The city's distant hum was a lullaby through the window, and the only other sound was the soft click of his mug meeting the coffee table as he set it down.

He leaned back, his head resting against the cushion, and finally looked at me. Not a glance, not a glare. A real, sustained look. His dark eyes were unguarded, heavy with an exhaustion that went far beyond the physical.

"It's quiet here," he said, as if realizing it for the first time.

"Is it not quiet at your place?"

He let out a short, humorless breath. "My place... the pipes knock. The neighbors argue. You can hear the traffic from the bridge. It's not... this." His gaze drifted around the room, taking in the books on the shelf, the soft blanket, the simple peace of it. "This is quiet."

He wasn't just talking about noise. He was talking about the chaos in his own head. The one he usually drowned out with violence and sarcasm. Here, on my couch, he didn't have to.

We sat like that for a long time, drinking our coffee in the calm of the night. There was no need to fill the space with words. The pressure to perform, to be the Vigilante or the perfect rival, had evaporated. He was just a man, and I was just a person, sharing a quiet moment before dawn.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, deepening. I looked over to see his head tilted back, his lips slightly parted. Asleep. The mug was still cradled loosely in his hand, resting on his stomach. The lines of pain and tension had finally smoothed completely from his face.

I stood up slowly, careful not to make a sound. I gently pried the mug from his relaxed grip and set it aside. He stirred slightly, a soft, incoherent mumble leaving his lips before he settled back into a deeper sleep.

I didn't wake him. I didn't suggest he move to a more comfortable position. I just pulled the knitted throw blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over him, my hand lingering for a moment on his shoulder. He was warm, solid, real.

Returning to my chair, I watched him sleep. The first hints of sunrise began to paint the sky in pale watercolors outside the window. He had come here for the quiet, and I found a strange, profound peace in simply giving it to him.

The world outside was starting to wake up, but in here, time felt suspended. He was safe. He was resting. And for now, that was all that mattered. The sound of his quiet, even breathing was the only thing I wanted to hear.