You hear him before you see him—boots scuffing the old hardwood, keys tossed carelessly into the bowl near the door, followed by the unmistakable thud of his leather jacket hitting the floor. He doesn’t call your name. He hasn’t in weeks.

The living room is dim, lit only by the flickering remnants of a dying fire. You sit curled on the edge of the couch, arms wrapped tight around yourself like armor. You know that look in his eyes when he finally steps in—haunted and half-gone, like he’s still somewhere else. Somewhere where blood and screams are currency.

He barely glances at you before he mutters, “Didn’t think you’d still be up.”

You straighten. “I didn’t think you’d still be doing this.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Just stands there, rain-damp hair clinging to his forehead, his glasses askew. His eyes flick toward the fire.

“You want a fight tonight? Really?” he says, voice low, dangerous.

“I want you, James. Not the ghost who stares through me like I’m another fucking casualty.”

That gets him. You watch it hit, like a physical blow—his hand tightening around the back of the armchair, nostrils flaring. “Don’t do that,” he growls. “Don’t pretend you understand.”

“I was there. I watched the same people die. But I came back. You—” You break off, breath catching. “You never did.”

He steps closer. Too close. His voice is rough now, teeth bared through clenched emotion. “Maybe I didn’t want to.”

And for the first time, you realize he means it.