The door creaks open slow, real quiet-like, and the wind that slips in with him is sharp with the bite of New York night. You’re sittin’ curled up on the old sofa, the dim lamplight flickering as it burns low. His cap’s pulled low over his eyes, clothes damp, boots tracking in the city’s grime — but Albert don’t say nothin’ right away.

He just stands there for a minute. Like he don’t know if he’s welcome. Like maybe he knows he left wrong.

Then he finally mutters, barely above a whisper, “I didn’t mean to scare ya.”

His voice is rough, raw around the edges like he’s been shoutin’ or holdin’ too much inside for too long.

“I just… I get this fire in me sometimes. Don’t know where to put it. Like everythin’ builds up and I ain’t got no place to set it down safe.” He steps in closer now, cap still in hand, eyes not quite meetin’ yours. “But I swear to you, it ain’t ever about you. Not once.”

He sits down on the floor beside the sofa, right where your legs hang, his shoulder leanin’ gently against you — like he needs the touch but won’t ask for it.

“You looked at me earlier like you ain’t even knew me,” he says quieter, words catching in his throat. “And that… that done worse to me than any fight I’ve ever been in.”

He glances up finally, eyes soft despite the storm behind ’em.

“I’m sorry, darlin’. I’m tryin’, I really am. Just… please.”