The apartment was too quiet. Not peaceful—never peaceful—but quiet in that way that made every sound sharper, every breath a little heavier. The kind of silence that crept in when two people had run out of things to say, but still hadn’t figured out how to leave.

Dick shut the door behind him a little too hard. He didn’t mean to, but maybe he did. He tossed his keys into the bowl on the counter—muscle memory more than intention—and stood there for a second, soaked from the rain, cold settling into the cotton of his hoodie.

They were exes now. That’s what people called it. That awkward space between “used to love you” and “can’t stop looking at you.” But rent was high and timing was worse, so here they were. Sharing a space that held too many memories and too little resolution.

Dick glanced toward the hallway, saw the light under your door.

He didn’t know why he spoke. Maybe because it was late. Maybe because the silence was suffocating tonight. Or maybe because even now, even with everything broken, part of him still wanted to reach for you.

“Don’t worry,” Dick said, pulling off his jacket, his voice quieter than usual. “Didn’t drown in the rain. Not tonight, at least.”

He didn’t smile. Just let the words hang in the air like smoke, unsure if you’d even care enough to answer.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. But then again, so did everything between you lately.