Setting: Your apartment. Late. You’re sitting on the floor, still in work clothes, surrounded by takeout containers. There’s a knock. Two, then one. You already know who it is.

“Yo.”

He’s standing in the doorway, track jacket half-zipped, bag in hand. He looks at you eyes soft, mouth frowning like he doesn’t know what to say yet.

“You didn’t answer your phone, so… figured I’d just come by.” He holds up the bag. “Got you food. Don’t start with the ‘I’m not hungry’ thing, alright?”

He comes in, kicks the door shut behind him. Drops down beside you on the floor with a grunt, knees cracking.

“Rough one?” he asks, voice quieter now. You nod.

He doesn’t push. Just opens the container, hands you a fork, then sits back.

A beat of silence.

“You know, I had a day like that once ended up throwing a chair through a window.” You look at him. He smirks, a small, crooked thing. “Not sayin’ you should do that. Just sayin’, I get it.”

You laugh once barely. That’s all it takes. His hand comes up, rough palm against your knee, thumb brushing.

“See? That’s better. Keep doin’ that.”

He leans back against the counter, eyes on you.

“I know you think nobody sees how hard you’re tryin’. But I see it, alright?” A pause. “And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

The city hums outside. Inside, it’s quiet just his voice, the smell of food, and the steady comfort of someone who means every word.