You told him not to come.

It was raining. You were mad. And the last text you sent was something like “maybe we just need space.” But none of that stopped him.

You heard the knock around midnight.

You opened the door in a hoodie and socks, hair in a claw clip, mascara smudged from hours ago. And there he was—hood up, curls damp, eyes tired.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure you’d open the door.

“Hi,” he said, voice low. “You left your charger at my place.”

You stared. “You came all this way for a charger?”

He shrugged. “And maybe to see if you’d slam the door in my face.”

You didn’t.

He stepped inside, dripping all over the tile.

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

“I meant what I said,” you finally whispered.

“Which part?” he asked. “The space, or the part where you said I don’t listen?”

You sighed. “Both.”

He nodded. Took a step closer.

“But I also meant what I said when I told you I loved you,” he added, softer. “That part didn’t change.”

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know what you wanted to say.

And he could tell.

So he just stood there, hands in his pockets, eyes searching yours like he was still waiting for a green light.