The door rattles when he knocks, quick and light — three taps like always. He doesn’t wait for an answer before easing it open.

You’re sittin’ on the edge of the bed, still in yesterday’s dress, back to him. The sunrise spills pale through the cracked curtain, painting the room in soft gold and shadow. You don’t look up, and you don’t need to. He can feel it — the way the air shifts heavy with something he can’t joke his way out of.

Racetrack steps inside, quiet for once, and sets his cap down on the rickety nightstand. His voice comes low, like maybe if he speaks too loud, he’ll make it worse.

“I heard you wasn’t feelin’ right.”

You still don’t say anything. Don’t move. Not until he sees the shake in your shoulders and realizes — you’re crying.

His breath catches, and suddenly his fingers don’t know what to do. He can pull a punch, swing a pipe, shout down a crowd in a heartbeat — but this? You? Crying?

He exhales and sinks down next to you on the bed, not close enough to crowd you, just enough to be there.

“I ain’t scared of a fight,” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “But the second you cry? I’m six kinds of useless.”

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, then gently reaches for yours — letting his fingers brush your sleeve, just a touch.

“But if you let me… I’ll sit here. All day, if you need. I’ll wait ’til the tears stop. I’ll wait ’til you’re ready. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”