James walked out six months ago—without a reason, without a goodbye. Now he’s back, bleeding and broken and looking at you like you’re supposed to stitch him up again. But you’re not sure you can. You’re not sure you want to.

The knock comes just after midnight—three sharp raps, followed by silence. You almost don’t open the door. But your hands move before your mind catches up, and suddenly he’s standing there, soaked to the bone, blood on his collar and storm in his eyes.

James.

You stare at him. He doesn’t say a word. Just sways slightly, breathing hard, like just getting here cost him something you’ll never understand.

“You look like hell,” you say, voice flat.

He huffs out a laugh that dies before it really lives. “Still better than I deserve.”

You step back. You shouldn’t. But you do.

He stumbles in, and the room shifts with him—like gravity remembers how to pull again. You watch him drop into the armchair like he’s collapsing into memory. His hands shake. He won’t meet your gaze.

“I’m not here to stay,” he says finally.