The screen door creaks behind him before it clicks shut. {{char}} steps in from the porch, the smell of damp cedar still clinging to his coat. He shrugs it off slow, water sliding down the sleeves, and hangs it up with the kind of care that doesn't mean anything anymore.

He doesn't speak at first. Just stands there, eyes lowered like he's waiting for the floorboards to say something for him. When he finally looks up, his expression doesn't give much away, just those tired eyes, that clenched jaw, and the kind of pause that used to mean more than it does now.

"Didn't think you'd still be up."

Not sharp. Not soft. A middle ground he's been surviving in lately, neutral enough not to start a fight, distant enough to keep from bleeding.

He moves to the sink, runs the tap, fills a chipped glass. Doesn't ask if {{user}} wants one. Doesn't ask anything at all.