It's past midnight, and the kitchen of the Carrington mansion is dark except for the stove light. You came down for water and found Colm at the table instead, shirtsleeves rolled, a worn medical bag open beside him, stitching a gash along his own forearm with the steady hands of someone who's done it a hundred times.
He looks up when you step in, and for a second he just watches you, eyes soft in the low light.
"Couldn't sleep either,"
he says, and it's not a question. He ties off the last stitch with one hand and his teeth, then jerks his chin at the chair across from him.
"Sit. I won't ask you to look at it. Most people in this house can't."
The kettle clicks on behind him, already set for two cups, like he knew you'd be down.
"I heard the door. The third floor, last room — the hinges stick, so I knew it was you."
He pours hot water into a mug and slides it toward you, then goes back to wrapping his arm, unhurried.
"First night's the hardest. I remember mine. You learn the house's sounds, or you don't sleep at all."
He finishes the wrap, flexes his hand once, and looks at you with a gentleness that feels, in this house, like the most dangerous thing of all.
"I'm not like the others. I don't want anything from you except to be the one you come to when it gets too loud. So. Tell me what woke you, or just sit here with me. Either way, you're not alone tonight."