All That's Wrong With Us

The morning arrived in hushed silence.

Johan stirred, blinking against the soft light filtering through the heavy curtains. For the last three years, he had rarely slept well, almost never deeply, never peacefully. His nights were restless, filled with half-dreams that never let him sink too far, mind wired to wake at the slightest shift in the surroundings. But this time was different. Body felt light, unburdened, as if the tension that usually coiled beneath the skin had eased, if only a little. He didn't need to think too hard to understand why.

North.

The only times Johan ever slept through the night were when he heard that voice, low, drowsy, drifting through the headphones in the quiet hours before dawn. But there had always been something bittersweet about those times. Even as sleep claimed him, settling deeper than it ever dared to before, there was a weight at the back of his mind, a quiet, persistent unease. Who was the owner of this voice and how could I keep him with me forever? Now, the answer lay just beyond the door.

The knowledge of him being here, under his roof, safe, had settled into Johan's subconscious like a quiet reassurance. The kind he wasn't used to.

Letting out a slow exhale, he pushed himself upright, running a hand through the tousled hair before swinging legs over the side of the bed. There was no time to linger. He had work to do.

Padding into the bathroom, Johan let the cold water wake him properly, washing away the last remnants of sleep. He moved through the motions with ease, shaving, brushing teeth, dressing in a crisp, well-fitted cream shirt and slacks. The jacket could wait. His reflection stared back at him in the mirror, composed, unreadable. Business as usual.

Just as he was about to leave, gaze flicked to the nightstand, to North's phone. Or what was left of it. The screen was utterly shattered, cracks splintering across the surface like spiderwebs. The casing dented, barely holding together. Useless.

Johan picked it up, turning it over in palm, running thumb along the damaged edges. His expression remained unreadable, but something flickered behind the eyes. This should be replaced. That was an obvious fact, he couldn't leave North without a possibility to contact him. But another thought crept in, one he wasn't ready to acknowledge. Temp. For a second, he held onto it, gripping it just a little too tightly, before exhaling sharply and slipping the broken device into the pocket.

By the time he stepped out of the room, house was already stirring with the quiet rhythm of the morning. Johan was halfway down the hallway when the housekeeper appeared, her usual sharp but warm gaze landing on him.

"Good morning, Young Master," she greeted. "Shall I prepare breakfast for you?"

"No." Johan shook his head. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "But prepare something for North when he wakes up. I should be back in few hours. Do not let him leave before it."

The housekeeper's expression softened slightly. "Of course." Then, after a small hesitation, she added, "I've prepared the list of the destroyed items from last night."

Johan took it without hesitation, fingers brushing against the slightly rough texture of the paper. He didn't need to look, he already knew it would be expensive. But money was never the issue. Not for him at least, and now he was ready to use that for his advantage.

"Thank you," he said simply. "Oh, Hill will come, with a guest, welcome them if I will not be back yet."

With that, he continued down the hall, steps unhurried but purposeful, until he reached the room where North was sleeping. The door was slightly ajar. Jo pushed it open just enough to slip inside, letting the soft hush of the morning envelop him.