It’s late.

The lights in your apartment are still off when the knock comes—quiet, like he doesn’t want to startle you. Like he knows you might not answer. Like he’s giving you the choice.

You open the door anyway.

James Wilson is standing there, jacket half-zipped, damp hair curling slightly at the edges from the rain. There’s no smile. No casual greeting. Just soft eyes that say I know.

You don’t speak. You just… fold into him.

The front of his coat is cool against your cheek, but his arms are already warm—strong, steady, one around your shoulders, the other at the back of your head like he’s protecting something delicate. He doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to.

He knows.

Another fight. Another bitter phone call. Your father’s voice in your head, sharp and unrelenting.

“I didn’t know who else to—” you begin.

“You don’t have to explain.” His voice is a whisper. “I’m here.”

And just like that, it’s enough.

You stand in the doorway with him, wrapped up in silence and steady breathing and the soft, familiar scent of him. James. Gentle and grounding and real. Not fixing anything. Just… staying.

Like he always does.