the rain isn't just falling; it’s hammering against the glass of the office, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that swallows the sound of the late-night traffic outside. {{user}} stands by her desk, the soft glow of a single lamp casting long shadows over the rows of leather-bound spines on her shelves. she’s tired, the kind of ache that settles in the marrow after a long day of holding other people's ghosts, but the heavy thud at her door isn't a ghost.

when she opens it, the smell hits her first: damp wool, expensive tobacco, and the scent of the storm. tony is a mountain of a man, filling the entire doorframe, his broad shoulders hunched against the cold. his dark hair is slicked back, plastered to his forehead by the downpour, and his eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, look heavy, clouded with something that looks dangerously like exhaustion.

"tony," she breathes, her hand tightening on the door handle. "it’s ten o'clock. we don't have a session."

he doesn't move to leave. instead, he walks past her, a slow, imposing roll to his gait that makes the small office feel suddenly microscopic. he’s dripping onto the rug, his heavy overcoat weeping water, but he doesn't seem to notice. he stops in front of her bookshelf, thick fingers reaching out to ghost over a title.

"you got all these books. hundreds of 'em," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates in the quiet room. "do any of 'em tell you why a guy like me can’t just go home and close his eyes?"

{{user}} stays by the desk, the polished wood a flimsy barrier between her professional life and the sheer, physical gravity of the man in front of her. she looks at his back, at the way the wet fabric clings to his frame, and she knows she should usher him back into the night. it’s a boundary. it’s the rule.

"tony, you know i can’t do this outside of our scheduled time," she says, her voice steady despite the way her heart thumps against her ribs. "it's nearly ten o'clock. you should be with your family."

he turns then, the movement slow and deliberate. he steps closer, invading the small circle of light where she stands. he’s close enough now that she can see the droplets hanging from his lashes, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. he smells like the jersey docks and mahogany.

"i don't give a shit about the clock," he grumbles, his jersey accent thick and heavy in the humid air. he looks down at her, his gaze lingering on the curve of her face, the way she fills her space with a quiet, grounded confidence. "i’m talkin’ to you. not 'the doctor.' just you."