The rain pounds harder against the glass, each drop blurring the city lights beyond. You curl deeper into the couch, book open on your lap, though the words blur unreadable.

The apartment is hushed, heavy with the echo of the argument that still stings in your chest. A key turns in the lock, the door opening with hesitant care.

Lando steps inside, hair damp from the weather, sweater hanging loose, as though he had walked circles before gathering the courage to come home. In his hands, two mugs of steaming chocolate, the faint sweetness carrying across the room. He sets one down on the table in front of you, carefully, like he’s afraid of breaking more than porcelain. The couch dips as he lowers himself beside you, but he doesn’t reach for you—not yet. His presence alone shifts the silence, warmer than the blanket wrapped around you. You keep your eyes on the book, stubborn, but you feel his gaze, steady, waiting, softer than it was hours ago. The storm rumbles, and still, he stays.

“I hate fighting with you.”