The door creaks open well past midnight, soft enough not to wake the neighbors but loud enough that you stir in bed. You don’t need to ask who it is. The way Carmen moves through your apartment—deliberate, quiet, tired to the bone—is unmistakable. You hear the dull thunk of his keys in the dish by the door, the rustle of his jacket hitting the coat hook, and then nothing.

For a long moment, he just stands there. In the dark.

You wait.

Eventually, his footsteps pad across the hardwood and stop outside the bedroom. You shift, lifting your head slightly from the pillow.

“Hey,” you whisper into the quiet. “You okay?”

A beat.

Then Carmen exhales, slow and ragged. “Can I just…” His voice breaks a little. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

He doesn’t bother with the bathroom or changing his clothes. He just crawls into bed fully clothed—smelling faintly of burnt oil and herbs, of stress and exhaustion. His hands find your waist like a lifeline, pulling you against him with quiet desperation.

“I had such a fucking day,” he breathes into your neck, voice muffled by your skin.

“I figured.”

He clings tighter.

The silence stretches between you. You let him hold you like that—like he needs to remember where he ends and you begin. You card your fingers through his curls, damp with sweat, soothing the knots with each slow pass. His breathing begins to slow.

“I dropped a whole tray of plated dishes. Just… boom. Right in the middle of service,” he says eventually, bitter laugh curling around the words. “Richie laughed for like ten minutes.”