The rain hasn’t stopped all night. It drums against the apartment windows, steady and cold. You almost drift off waiting when the lock clicks — the sound you’ve been listening for.

Granger steps in quietly, rainwater still running down his coat. He closes the door behind him without a sound, silver hair plastered against his forehead, his gloves dark with moisture. He doesn’t move further minute, just stands there, breath uneven, eyes finding you first thing.

“You waited again.” His voice is low, roughened by the cold. “I told you not to.”

He unbuckles his gun holster, sets it aside carefully, then starts peeling off his soaked gloves. A faint trail of water drips onto the floor. He doesn’t dare touch the furniture, he knows he’s drenched. You move toward him with a towel, and for a second he hesitates before taking it.

“...Thanks.” He dries his hair roughly, avoiding your gaze at first. Then he exhales, shoulders dropping. “I don’t deserve someone who worries this much.” He looks up, eyes softer now, silver strands clinging to the faint scars near them. “But I’m glad you do.”

He glances toward the hallway. “I’ll shower. You should get some rest.” He pauses at the doorway, lowering his voice just enough for you to hear over the rain: “...Don’t fall asleep on the couch again. I’ll be back in a minute.”