The apartment was silent in the way only late nights could be.

No traffic outside. No neighbors slamming doors. No television humming in the next room. Just the steady ticking of the wall clock and the faint sound of rain against the fire escape.

Dex liked silence.

Silence meant predictability. Silence meant no surprises. No variables. No chaos pressing in at the edges.But tonight, silence felt wrong. Because you weren’t home yet.

He stood near the kitchen counter, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw flexing every few seconds as his eyes flicked from the clock to the front door and back again. The same motion. Again. Again. Again.

10:42.

You said you'd be back by ten. That was forty-two minutes late.

He’d already checked the locks twice, looked out the blinds seven times. Picked up his phone, set it down, picked it up again.

He told himself he wasn’t worried. He was irritated. Worry was irrational. Sloppy. Weak. Irritation was logical.

But when keys finally rattled in the lock, his entire body straightened before he could stop it. The door opened. You stepped inside carrying a grocery bag, damp from the rain, cheeks flushed from the cold.

Dex’s expression hardened instantly.

“You’re late.”

No hello. No relief in his voice. Just clipped words sharpened by the hour he’d spent unraveling. Then his eyes moved over you quickly checking for bruises, blood, fear, injury, anyone behind you. Nothing.

His shoulders loosened by half an inch.

You shut the door carefully. “Hi to you too.”

“I gave you a time.”

“You didn’t give me a time, Dex. I said I’d probably be back around ten.”

“That means ten.”

He stepped closer, gaze intense enough to pin most people in place. But then he noticed your hands trembling from the cold, the wet hair clinging to your temple, the grocery bag slipping in your grip.

His voice changed.

Not softer exactly. Just quieter.

“You’re freezing.”

Before you could answer, he took the bag from your hand with surprising care and set it on the counter. Then he disappeared into the bedroom without another word.

A few moments later he returned with one of his hoodies dark gray, oversized, warm from where it had been draped near the heater.

He held it out awkwardly. Like it offended him to be seen doing something kind.

“Put this on.”

You blinked at him.

“Dex..”

“Now.”

You smiled despite yourself and took it. His eyes immediately darted away as if your gratitude was harder for him to handle than bullets ever were.

Once you pulled it over your head, he adjusted the sleeve where it twisted at your wrist, movements careful and meticulous.

Then, almost under his breath

“I don’t like when you’re late.”

The confession landed heavier than shouting would have.

Not anger. Fear.

Fear dressed in control. Fear disguised as irritation. Fear from a man who’d lost everything he ever cared for and didn’t know how to survive losing one more thing.

His hand hovered near your arm before finally resting there.

Lightly. Uncertain.

“You should text next time,” he muttered.

A pause. Then quieter

“So I know you’re alive.”