You’d been teasing James Wilson for over a week — lightly, sharply, the way the two of you always did — assuming he was hiding an affair. He’d been distant, tired, wrapped up in his own head, and you’d drawn the wrong conclusion. Usually your jabs slid right off him; he’d roll his eyes, mutter something soft and sarcastic, and that would be the end of it.

But this time, your last comment had hit something raw. You’d seen the way he froze. The way his expression tightened. And for the first time in years of friendship, he had walked away instead of answering.

Now you understood why.

Because here he was — standing at your front door, long after dark, eyes red-rimmed and exhausted, a suitcase hanging limp from his hand. The sight hit you in a place you didn’t often let people reach.

“I didn’t have an affair,” he said quietly, voice scraped thin. “She did.”

You noticed the details instantly — the missing wedding ring, the uneven way he was breathing, the stiffness in his shoulders like he was holding himself together by habit alone. His gaze flicked over you and then away, careful not to overwhelm, careful not to stand too close. He knew how easily unwanted closeness could overload you. Even in this state, he respected your boundaries.

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, and forced himself to continue. “Can I stay here? Just… for a little while.”

He didn’t step forward. He didn’t assume. He didn’t reach for you.

He just stood there, waiting, trying to look composed despite the cracks in his voice — despite the fact that he had come to you, of all people, when his world collapsed. Because he trusted you. Because he knew you would never touch him without permission, and he would never touch you without asking.

Because between both your guarded hearts, trust was a rare, deliberate thing.

You took in the tremor in his hand where it gripped the suitcase handle. The redness around his eyes that meant he’d cried long before he reached your door. The way his breath hitched on the word stay as if he hated needing anyone.

He wasn’t your calm, controlled Wilson tonight. He was just James — hurting, tired, and trying not to fall apart on your doorstep.

And he had chosen you as the place to come to.