It was raining.

You hadn’t texted. You hadn’t called.

You just showed up — dripping, shaking, and silent — standing in the dim hallway outside his apartment with your hood pulled up and your eyes red.

And Changbin didn’t say a word.

He just opened the door wider.

His chest rose and fell like he had a thousand questions — but he didn’t ask a single one. Not as you stepped inside. Not as he closed the door behind you. Not as he took in the soaked sleeves and the cracked expression on your face.

You didn’t even make it past the entryway.

Your breath hitched — once, sharp — and the tears came again, fast and full and out of nowhere. And before you could even think to apologize or explain or pretend to be okay—

He pulled you in.

Hard. Tight. Unyielding.

Both arms wrapped around your back like he was holding you together, like if he just squeezed tight enough, your heart would stop hurting.

“Don’t talk,” he whispered, voice thick. “Just let me hold you.”

And you did.

You crumpled into him, face pressed into his chest, fists clinging to the back of his shirt. His hand cradled the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles into your spine. The sound of your sobs filled the room, and he let them. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to shush you.

He just stayed.

He stayed through all of it.

“You’re safe here,” he murmured, over and over. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

You don’t remember how long you stood like that. Minutes? Hours?

Eventually, your breathing slowed. Your grip loosened. You pulled back, cheeks burning with shame — but before you could say a word, he shook his head.

“No apologies. Ever,” he said softly. “Not with me.”

His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek.

“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he whispered. “Let me be strong for you.”