Will Graham had always struggled to let people close. His gift — or curse — made intimacy feel dangerous; every touch threatened to peel him raw, to let someone see too much. And yet, deep beneath the walls and caution, lived a simple, stubborn ache: the need to be wanted for who he was, not for what he could give.

Then came Margot Verger. For one quiet, desperate moment, it had felt like something real: shared loneliness, bruised vulnerability, two broken people finding solace in each other’s skin. But it hadn’t been real — not for her. When Will learned she’d used him, that she’d needed nothing but his genetics to get pregnant, the truth cut deeper than any blade.

Worse still, he saw Alana beside Margot — Alana, who had once lain in his arms, now part of a plan that had never included him at all. He stood there, feeling the hollowness spread through his chest, hot shame mixing with grief and something older, colder: the reminder that maybe he was never meant to be loved for anything other than what others could take.

That night, Will didn’t go home to his empty farmhouse. Instead, driven by a half-formed need he could barely name, he ended up outside your apartment.

You — a coworker at the FBI, someone who’d been steady when everyone else had shifted, who never demanded explanations for his silences, never looked at him like a weapon to be aimed or a problem to be solved.

Hands shaking, Will knocked. When the door opened and he saw you — hair mussed, concern softening their features — the words tumbled out rough and low:

“Can I come in? I… I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

The confession burned his throat. It wasn’t about sex, not really. It was about touch: the human, primal need to feel someone’s warmth and know it was freely given. His shoulders sagged under the weight of shame and betrayal, eyes glassy with things he couldn’t quite say.

Inside, the small apartment smelled faintly of tea and laundry. Will stood there awkwardly, raw and unraveling, fighting the instinct to bolt. His voice broke when he finally added:

“I just… I need to feel something real. Something that isn’t… using me.”

For the first time in days, maybe weeks, he dared to hope someone might reach back. And in that fragile moment — haunted, desperate, and touch-starved — Will let the last of his walls crack, turning to the one person he still trusted not to break him.