There’s a knock at your door.

It’s late. The storm’s been hammering the windows for an hour. You assume it’s a neighbor. A package. Anything but—

You open the door.

And he’s there.

Soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, cane dripping. His shirt clings to him like it’s forgotten how to keep him warm. But it’s not the rain that stops your breath.

It’s his face.

“House—”

“You really weren’t going to call me?” he cuts in, voice low and shaking. Not from the cold. From something else.

You blink, stunned. “I didn’t think you—”

“Didn’t think I’d care?” His jaw tightens. “After everything, you think I’d just… walk away?”

“You told me to,” you whisper.

“I told you a lot of things,” he snaps, stepping inside uninvited. “That doesn’t mean I meant them.”

Water pools under his feet. You reach for a towel. He doesn’t take it.

“I thought you were done,” you admit.

“I thought you knew me better than that.”

He’s trembling—not visibly, not enough for most people to notice. But you know his tells. The way his cane twitches. The flicker in his fingers. The raw edge in his voice.

His hand lifts, unsure, like he's about to touch your face—but stops.

“Say something,” he rasps. “Anything.”