The knock on your door comes late. Too late for visitors.

When you open it, John is standing there.

For a second he just looks at you, like he’s making sure you’re real. His usual easy confidence—the one the cameras love—is completely gone. His tie is loosened, hair slightly messy, eyes red like he hasn’t slept.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

He steps inside before the hallway light can spill too much into the room, the door clicking shut behind him. The city noise fades, leaving only the quiet of the apartment.

John exhales, running both hands over his face.

“I didn’t know where else to go tonight.”

His voice catches slightly on the last word, and he gives a small shake of his head like he’s annoyed with himself for letting it happen.

“All day people kept telling me how strong she was… how proud she’d be of me.” He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I spent my whole life trying to live up to her.”

For a moment he just stands there, staring at the floor.

Then he looks back at you, and the composure he’s been holding together all day finally cracks a little.

“I’m so tired of everyone looking at me like I’m supposed to be okay.”

His breathing has gotten uneven without him noticing. When you step closer and gently place your hand against his chest, he freezes for a moment.

Then his shoulders drop.

Like the tension he’s been carrying all day finally loosens.

His hand slowly comes up, covering yours where it rests against his chest, grounding himself there. He closes his eyes briefly and lets out a shaky breath.