The door creaked open, and James barely glanced up from his spot at the kitchen table. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat beside him, condensation pooling around the base of the glass in his hand. His fingers drummed against the table, a rhythm as restless as the look in his eyes when they finally shifted to you.

“You’re back,” he muttered, his tone low but sharp enough to make the air feel heavier. He leaned back in his chair the faint creak of the wood breaking the silence as he tilted his head studying you like he was searching for something unsaid.

“You’ve been out late a lot lately,” he added, his voice almost casual, though the edge was impossible to miss. His gaze lingered on you for a beat too long before dropping back to his glass the ice shifted as he swirled it around, the sound breaking the quiet tension between you.

“You look tired,” he said, quieter this time like it was an afterthought, though his words carried an unspoken weight. He sighed, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head slightly like he was brushing off whatever he might’ve been about to say.

James had always been hard to read, his moments of softness wrapped up in layers of frustration and silence. Tonight felt no different like there was something just out of reach, buried beneath the way his jaw tightened and his fingers fidgeted against the glass.

“Sit down,” he said suddenly, motioning toward the chair across from him. His voice softened, but not enough to erase the tension lingering in the air. “We should talk.” There was something unsettling about the way he said it half concerned, half expectant. The room felt heavier now, his presence filling the space like a shadow that never quite faded, no matter how much light you tried to bring in.