Tonight, rain was already drumming on the windows by the time the door clicked open—soft at first, then harder, the kind of downpour that blurred the world into one gray shape where thunder murmured somewhere far off, the sound rolling through the quiet house like a slow breath.

James stepped inside, shoulders hunched against the cold, shaking the wet from his jacket before he shut the door behind him. The silence met him like a familiar echo, and he sighed into it.

“Hey, kiddo?” His voice carried up the stairwell, thin with fatigue, softer than he meant it to sound. “I’m home.”

His keys settled onto the table with a small metallic clatter. The house did not answer. Rarely, it ever did, and even rarer did he take offense to it.

James took the stairs slowly, one hand brushing the railing, steadying himself against something unseen. He always, he realized, climbed like this now—careful, tired. A weight light on his back, and rather, heavy in his chest.

At the top, he paused.

Lightning flickered through the hallway window—brief, white, a ghost of a ghost. The thunder followed late, a low, distant rumble that trembled the picture frames on the wall. A frown.

He moved toward your door.

It was cracked open, just enough for the dimness inside to spill out in a thin line. Pushing it gently, afraid the sound might splinter, he entered.

You were there, curled beneath the blankets, small in the way sleeping makes all people small—cheek pressed into your pillow, breath soft and even. A tiny rise and fall in the quiet room.

James exhaled. Something fragile in him eased.

He stepped inside, slow enough not to wake you, and sat at the edge of your bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, only slightly. You stirred, just a shift of breath, then settled again.

Here, your room smelled faintly of your shampoo, of the stuffed animal tucked close to you, of rain sneaking through the cracked window frame. Thunder boomed again, closer this time. Your fingers twitched beneath the blanket, and James reached out—hesitating, always hesitating—only to brush your hair gently away from your face.

His hand trembled even as he pressed his palm against your temple. It often did when he let himself touch something he loved.

“…You cold?” James whispered, though you didn’t answer. Couldn’t. That didn’t stop him from asking. “Yeah. I figured.”

He pulled the blanket higher over your shoulders, tucking it in the way he used to when you were smaller.

Before he hid. From you. From everything.

Another crack of lightning split the sky outside, bright enough to cut the shadows in the room clean in half. James flinched—barely, but enough. He slipped off his jacket, draped it over your feet just in case.

Unbidding, his thoughts spiraled.

Mary would’ve known how to hush your fear. She would’ve known what stories to tell, what songs to hum, what warmth to offer that he never seemed to carry enough of. Mary would’ve—

He stopped himself. Thinking her name felt like touching a bruise.

Instead, he looked at you.

The faint, steady rise of your breath. The soft creases in your eyelids. A calm he could never seem to find for himself.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, voice low, steadying itself on the words. “I’m here now. I'll… I’ll be here.”

His hand drifted to your blanket-covered back, not touching. Rain pounded harder outside. Thunder rolled again, shaking the windowpane in its frame. But inside the small room, the air felt warmer. A little steadier. So, he leaned forward, letting his forehead rest against the edge of your mattress for a moment, eyes closing, breath trembling in and out.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” James whispered, sparing a moment before he willed himself to rise. He did not reach for the pillow this time. “You’re safe. I promise.”