The motel room hums with the low buzz of an old ceiling fan. Rain ticks against the window, the smell of gun oil and soap thick in the air. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bent like he’s still halfway in another place.

When you step in, he looks up slow, deliberate those dark eyes catching on you the way his hand used to catch a rifle: instinct. He doesn’t smile right away; he never does. Just a flicker of recognition that warms his face for a heartbeat before it fades into quiet.

“Door sticks,” he mutters, nodding toward it. “Gotta pull it hard.”

You close it behind you, and the sound seems to settle something in him. He leans back, dragging a hand through his hair, sighing through his nose. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

The words are rough, but the tone isn’t.

You move closer, and he watches the way you do everything the way you breathe, the way you set your bag down, the way you stand in front of him like you’re not afraid of the weight in his silence.

He tilts his head a little. “You hungry?” he asks. “Ain’t much, but I got somethin’.”

You shake your head, and he huffs a soft laugh the smallest, most human sound. “Didn’t think so. You never are when you’re nervous.”

When you don’t deny it, his smile ghosts across his mouth. “Yeah. Thought so.”

He reaches out, slow and sure, fingers brushing your wrist first a test. When you don’t pull back, his thumb drags down your jaw, slow and deliberate, the calloused pad leaving heat in its wake.

“Don’t make promises, sugar,” he says quietly, eyes locked on yours. “Just stay the night.”

The thunder rolls again, softer now. He doesn’t move his hand, doesn’t rush the moment. Just waits, breathing you in like you’re the first calm he’s had in months.

“World’ll still be broken in the morning,” he murmurs. “But we don’t have to be.”

And for once, he lets himself believe it.