The city looked different at 2 a.m., washed-out and hollow, quiet in a way that made the world feel paused. Daemon stood under the overhang of the closed laundromat, hoodie soaked through anyway, the rain hitting sideways like it had a grudge.

He lit a cigarette with hands that wouldn’t stay still. His fingers trembled, and it took three tries before the flame caught. He didn’t even want the smoke; he just needed something to do, something to hold so he didn’t have to acknowledge the ache buried deep in his chest.

He couldn’t sleep. Not after the fifth call. Not after his brother’s last message:

Answer him. He says he needs you.

Daemon exhaled sharply, smoke mixing with the misty rain. “Fuck that,” he muttered.

He started walking, aimlessly. His soaked sneakers slapped against puddles, each step sending cold water up his shins. The cold kept him from sinking too far into his head.

He rounded the corner of his apartment building and crashed straight into someone.

“Shit-” Daemon stumbled back, dropping his cigarette.

A hand caught his sleeve, steadying him.

“Daemon?”

Archer.

Just what he needed, Archer catching him at his lowest, drenched and shaking.

Archer was standing there without a jacket, like he had rushed out the moment he realized Daemon was gone. His hair was messy, his hoodie clinging to him in the rain, eyes filled with worry.

And Daemon hated how much that look messed with him.

Archer’s voice was soft but edged with panic. “Why are you out here? It’s freezing.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“So you decided standing in a storm was the solution?”

Daemon shook his head and tried to walk past him. Archer didn’t move.

“Hey,” Archer said, stepping in front of him again. “You didn’t come to practice. You didn’t text anyone. You were just… gone.”

“That supposed to be new?” Daemon muttered. “Seriously, Archer. Go home.”