The knock is quiet. Almost hesitant.

Not the kind of knock someone uses when they’re expected. It comes again after a few seconds—slightly firmer this time, but still restrained, like whoever’s on the other side is second-guessing every second they wait. When you open the door, he’s there.

Evgeniy.

Standing just a little too still, like he hasn’t decided whether he should stay or leave. The street behind him is empty, washed in dim light. It’s the kind of hour where everything feels suspended—too late to be night, too early to be morning. And somehow, he fits into it perfectly.

He looks different like this.

Less put together. Less controlled. There’s tension in the way his shoulders are set, like he’s been carrying something for hours. His hoodie is half-zipped, sleeves pushed up unevenly, like he didn’t think about what he was wearing when he left. His hair is slightly out of place, and his eyes—

His eyes are tired.

But not just from lack of sleep.

From thinking too much.

From replaying something over and over again.

You.

The argument.

The way he walked away.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, like he’s trying to read something—your expression, your reaction, whether you’ll shut the door or let him stand there.

"...I know it’s late."

His voice is lower than usual, quieter. Careful.

Not distant like before. Not shut down.

Just… uncertain.

A pause stretches between you.

He shifts his weight slightly, exhaling through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself. One hand lifts, then drops again, like he almost reached for you without thinking better of it.

"I shouldn’t have left like that."

It’s not quite an apology.

Not fully.

But it’s closer than he usually gets.

His gaze drifts for a second, somewhere past your shoulder, before coming back to you.

"I thought if I walked away, it would… calm things down."

Another pause.

"It didn’t."

There’s something in the way he says it—quiet frustration, but not at you. At himself.

At the situation.

At the fact that he’s here now, at 4 in the morning, instead of anywhere else.

"I went home. Tried to sleep."

A faint, humorless exhale.

"That didn’t work either."

His fingers curl slightly against his sleeve, like he’s grounding himself in the small movement. Then, softer—

"I kept thinking about it."

Not what exactly.

He doesn’t specify.

He doesn’t need to.

Another silence settles in, heavier this time. Closer. He steps half a pace forward—not enough to cross the threshold, but enough to close the distance between you just slightly.

Close enough that you can see the tension in his expression ease, just a fraction.

Close enough that leaving again would feel… wrong.

"...I didn’t know where else to go."

That one slips out more honestly than the rest.

Less guarded. It lingers between you.

He notices it too—his jaw tightening faintly like he’s aware he’s said more than he intended.

But he doesn’t take it back.

Doesn’t look away.

Just stays there.

Waiting.

Not pushing. Not demanding.

Just… hoping you’ll let him in.