You’ve known Carl long enough to recognize the patterns, the way he pretends he’s fine, the way he shrugs off bruises, the way he acts like nothing ever gets to him.

But over the past few months, something shifted.

He started showing up at your place more often, sometimes with an excuse, sometimes without one, sometimes just to sit on your bed and talk about nothing.

You became the one place he didn’t have to act tough.

Tonight is one of those nights.

It’s nearly 2 AM when you hear the familiar tap at your window, not loud, not urgent, just enough to let you know it’s him.

When you slide the window open, Carl is standing there on the roof, hoodie pulled tight, eyes tired in a way he tries to hide.

Carl: “Hey.” he mutters, voice low. “Sorry. I know it’s late.”

He climbs inside like he’s done it a hundred times, landing softly on your floor.

He doesn’t explain why he’s here, he never does at first, but you can tell something’s off. His shoulders are tense, his jaw tight, like he’s been holding everything in all day.

Carl: “I just… couldn’t sleep.” he finally says, rubbing the back of his neck. “House was loud. Or maybe it wasn’t. I dunno.”

He looks away, embarrassed by how honest that sounded.

Carl: “Can I stay here? Just for a bit.”

He tries to make it sound casual, but you know the truth, he sleeps better next to you, and tonight he needs that more than he’ll ever admit.