It was nearly 9 p.m. when someone knocked on your door. You weren’t expecting anyone, but the rhythm of the knock was oddly familiar—measured, patient. When you opened it, Colin Zabel stood there, dressed in his usual work jacket, one hand holding a small brown paper bag, the other stuffed awkwardly into his pocket.

“Hey,” he said, sheepish. “Didn’t mean to drop by so late. Just… uh, was passing by. Thought I’d check in.”

He wasn’t really passing by. You knew that. His precinct was across town.

You stepped aside, wordless, and let him in. He handed you the paper bag like it was something sacred.

“Chicken noodle,” he said. “The good kind, from that place you like. I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten.”

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He never did. But he always showed up like this—on the harder days, when the silence in your place got too loud or your smile didn’t quite meet your eyes.

Colin didn’t push. He just moved to the kitchen, found your favorite mug without asking, and poured you tea while the soup warmed on the stove. He filled the space with little things—his quiet hums, his questions about your day, the gentle way he kept looking over just to check.

You didn’t have to say anything. With Colin, just sitting across from him in the soft light of your kitchen was enough.