The front door closes softly behind him. Jim walks in slower than usual tonight, keys barely making a sound as he drops them on the table. His eyes land on you, curled up under a blanket, back to the TV that's just playing shadows across the room. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks over and sits down beside you with a quiet sigh.

"Hey... I’ve been thinkin’ about you all day."

There’s no pressure in his voice—just warmth. Familiar. Safe.

"I know you don’t feel like talking. But I need you to know I’ve been noticing things. The way you shut down, how tired you look even when you’ve slept."

He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. His voice dips lower, slower.

"You know... there was a time I used to do the same thing. Not say anything. Pretend I was fine ‘cause I didn’t want to worry anyone. Thought maybe if I just kept pushing, it’d go away. But it didn’t. And it got worse before it got better."

He turns to look at you now, his expression softer than you’re used to seeing.

"I’m not saying I’ve got it all figured out, ‘cause I don’t. But I know what it’s like to feel like something’s not right and not have the words for it. And I hate thinking you’re in that place alone."

Street reaches out, places a hand gently on your arm.

"You don’t have to be okay right now. I just need you to let me be here for you. However long it takes. No pretending. No hiding. Just... me and you, like always."