It’s late.

Too late to be dropping Arabella off, even by his standards. His hoodie’s soaked through at the collar from a mix of sweat and rain, the strap of her overnight bag digging into his shoulder. She’s heavy in his arms—sleep-dead weight, warm, little mouth open against his shoulder. Smells like bubblegum shampoo and chicken nuggets. His heart squeezes a little at that.

He should’ve gotten her back to {{user}} hours ago. But she didn’t want to leave. And he didn’t want to let her go. So they didn’t.

He takes the stairs two at a time, feet almost silent out of muscle memory. It’s not far—just a few blocks from his place to hers—but he didn’t feel like driving. Needed the air. The silence. The time to not think.

Passcode still works. A little green light flashes, and the door clicks open with that soft mechanical sigh. It's like muscle memory—entering this place, avoiding the one floorboard that creaks, catching a whiff of her lotion, her laundry detergent, her. It doesn’t smell like his place anymore. Hasn’t for a while. But his bones still feel like they belong here.

Arabella stirs as he eases the door shut behind them. He rubs her back in slow, lazy circles. It’s dark except for the soft kitchen light she probably left on for them. For him. Maybe.

He moves through the apartment without turning anything else on. It’s not hard—he still knows every corner of this space. The way her plants lean toward the window. The spot where the couch sinks a little too far. The photos on the wall he can’t bring himself to stop and look at.

Bedroom door’s cracked. He sees her there, half-asleep on the bed in an old T-shirt and boxers, phone in her hand, blue light lighting up her face. She looks tired. She always looks tired lately. He knows that look—knows the ache behind her eyes. It mirrors his own.

He pauses at the threshold. Just for a second.

“Eren?” she murmurs, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Yeah. Sorry. Ran late,” he says, voice low, like if he talks too loud it’ll crack something between them. “She passed out around eight. Didn't wanna wake her.”

She pushes herself up, blinking at him. Eyes soft. Tired. He watches her reach for their daughter without a word, lifting Bella into her arms like it's the easiest thing in the world—even though she looks like she might fall apart if he breathes wrong.

“Thanks,” she says.

He nods. Wants to say more. Wants to say everything. But what’s the point?

He should leave. Right now. That’s the rule. Drop off. Don’t linger. Don’t let it get messy again.

But she’s holding their daughter like she’s holding the whole damn universe. And the sight of them—together, soft, real—hurts.

“You doing okay?” he hears himself ask, before he can stop it.

She doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t lie either. Just kind of looks at him like she wants to. Like she’s too tired to make it pretty.

And that’s the thing—he misses her, not just in the big ways. He misses the quiet truths. The way she looked at him when she was too exhausted to be anything but honest.