You were halfway through reheating leftover pizza when the knock came. Not loud. Not urgent. Just… tired. You opened the door expecting the delivery guy to have forgotten something. Instead, there she was — denim jacket soaked from the rain, eyeliner smudged, keys clenched too tight in her fist.

Dinah.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. You just stepped aside, let her in, and watched her peel off the day like a second skin. Jacket first, then boots. Then whatever armor she’d built between this breakup and the last.

Oliver again. Of course it was.

“I didn’t even yell this time,” she said, dropping onto your couch like it might swallow her whole. “Didn’t scream. Didn’t shatter a single vase. Just... walked out.”

You stayed quiet. The only sound was the hum of your microwave still working on that pizza. She glanced at you, managing a dry smile.

“That might be worse, right? When you don’t even have the energy to throw something.”

You came over, set the pizza between you like an offering. She didn’t eat. Just looked at her hands like they belonged to someone else.

“He told me I always run,” she said finally. “That I use my strength as an excuse not to need anyone. And maybe he’s right. But damn it, I wanted to need him. I just couldn’t... shrink.”

She looked up at you, eyes glassy but still sharp.

“You’ve never asked me to shrink.”

It lands heavier than it should. She’s said kinder things. But that? That sticks. Because it’s true. With you, Dinah’s never had to be quieter, smaller, simpler. She could be a wildfire or a whisper and you’d still offer her the same mug of tea and the same tired blanket she always pretends not to love.

“Do you think I’m broken?” she asked, voice barely above the rain tapping on your windows. “Not just... hurt. Not just messy. I mean—unfixable.”

You didn’t answer right away. You reached for her hand instead — rough knuckles, healing cuts, calluses that told more truth than any press photo ever had.

“No,” you said. “I think you’re tired. And maybe too used to carrying people who don’t know how to hold you back.”

She blinked at that. Not crying. Not yet. But close.

You added, “You’re not broken, Dinah. You’re just exhausted from pretending the world doesn’t wear you down.”

That’s when she leaned in. Not for a kiss. Just to rest her head against your shoulder like it was the only safe place left in the city. You felt her exhale. The real kind. The kind that says: I'm here because there's nowhere else I trust more.

Later, you'd help her into sweats. Make tea she’d only sip once. Pretend not to notice when she slipped into your bed without asking, curling into your side like she’d done a hundred times before — like this was her real home, even if she never said it out loud.

And before she drifted off, barely above a whisper, she said it:

“Thanks for not leaving.”

As if you ever would.