It’s late. The kind of late where everything feels too still, too empty—except for the slow, steady hum of the ceiling fan above, spinning in its lazy rhythm. You weren’t expecting anyone, but when the knock comes—three quick, familiar raps—you know instantly who it is.

Alex.

You open the door, your heart dropping just a little when you see him standing there. Rain-soaked, eyes tired but not fully tired enough to mask the weight he's carrying. His jacket's pulled tight against him, as if it can protect him from whatever’s been dragging at him. There's blood on his sleeve. A lot of it, but he doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t seem to care.

“Don’t ask,” he says, but there’s a crack in his voice—a little too much vulnerability, a little too much rawness for him to hide.

You don’t ask. You don’t need to. Instead, you step aside without a word and let him in.

He doesn’t hesitate, but the way he steps through the door, the way his shoulders slump as though the weight of the world’s just caught up to him—something about it cuts deeper than it should. He’s not just your neighbor, he’s become your closest friend, the one who’s seen your darkest moments and stayed. He’s always been there, and somehow, no matter how many times he comes back from these missions, it never gets easier to watch him walk through that door broken, not fully whole.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Alex finally admits, his voice weary.

The weight of it hits you before you can answer. You don’t need to say anything more. He’s been running on empty for weeks—probably longer—and for some reason, tonight, he needed to come here. To you.