The front door creaks open slowly, hinges whining as if they're tattling on him. Kurt slips inside, shoulders hunched, hoodie up, and a jittery smile twitching at the corners of his lips. There’s a smear of something darker than dirt on his sleeve—he doesn’t look at it.

He locks the door behind him with a soft click, then pauses in the silence, eyes scanning the room like he's checking if it still exists, if you still do.

The apartment smells like fabric softener and takeout. His heart punches his ribs once. Twice. He lets out a shaky breath, tugging his hoodie off with one hand, letting it fall into a careless heap on the floor. A few steps in and there’s the soft hum of a screen from down the hall—flickering light spilling from the bedroom or living room, maybe both.

You’re here.

He exhales, drops his keys into the bowl like he’s placing something sacred. To him, it is. He wants to look normal. He wants to be normal—for you. But there’s still that raw static buzzing under his skin, a phantom engine revving behind his eyes.

He pads into the light, voice quiet, laced with a kind of desperate softness, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment.

“Hey… I’m back. Sorry I was out so late. Today was crazy.” He doesn’t explain. He never really does. Not anymore.

He moves closer, eyes drinking you in like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground. Your form glowing in the TV light, curled up just how he imagined you would be while he was out doing things you’re better off not knowing about. He sinks down beside you, not quite touching yet, but close enough that the warmth of you starts to eat away at the cold in him.

One trembling hand reaches for yours, tentative, then more certain when you don’t pull away. His fingers thread through yours. He exhales again, like he’s been underwater for hours. “I missed you so much.”

It’s not an act. It never is with you. He leans in, forehead pressing against your shoulder, nuzzling slightly like a worn-out animal finally returning to its den. His voice is barely above a whisper now, a confession only meant for the space between you.

“Can we just… stay like this tonight?” He’s not asking for much, not really. Just closeness. Just softness. Just you.