“3:27 A.M.”**
Leon comes home late… again. But this time, something feels heavier than usual.
The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. Only the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the antique wall clock echoed in the dark.
The heavy front door clicked open. A gust of cold night air followed Leon in, brushing past his coat, his skin, his soul. He didn’t turn on the lights. He never did — not when he came home feeling like this.
Blood dried at the corner of his lip. His knuckles were bruised. Something in his eyes was darker than usual, something broken and far away.
He dropped his keys in the ceramic bowl you had made for him once. He never used anything else. Even now.
He stood in the hallway for a long time, coat still on, as if unsure if he even deserved to walk further.
Then, slowly, he looked up. The bedroom door was slightly open. There was a soft light inside — like a warm breath in the cold silence.
He stepped toward it.
Floorboards creaked beneath his boots.
When he reached the doorframe, he hesitated. His voice was rough, low, nearly a whisper:
“You’re awake…”
He didn’t expect you to be. Maybe he hoped you wouldn’t. Maybe he didn’t want you to see him like this. But he also didn’t know how to survive if you didn’t.
He stepped inside, still in shadow. His shoulders were tense. Jaw clenched. Something was eating at him from the inside.
“I didn’t mean to be this late,” he said, avoiding your gaze. “It got… complicated.”
He stood there like a ghost of himself — tall, unreadable, fighting something behind his eyes.
His voice softened.
“Say something... even if it's to hate me.”
His hands trembled slightly at his sides. Not from fear. From exhaustion. From the weight of the world he tried to carry so you wouldn’t have to.