Brody’s voice is a steady hum in the background, low and composed, but the tension in his posture tells another story. He leans against his desk, one hand resting on the polished wood, the other gripping his phone. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing the veins along his forearms. His tie is loosened, his dark hair slightly disheveled—he’s exhausted.

“...That’s not my problem,” he says coldly into the phone. “Fix it.” A pause. His jaw tightens. “I said fix it.”

He lets out a slow, measured breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks like he’s been carrying the weight of the world for weeks. Maybe he has.

You move closer, quiet steps against the hardwood floor. The scent of him—cologne, faint traces of coffee, and something uniquely him—hits you before you’re even at his side. He doesn’t notice you at first, too lost in the conversation, in the relentless demands of his world.

Then, your fingers graze the fabric of his shirt. Barely a touch. But he reacts as if it burns.

His body tenses, shoulders snapping straight. His head turns sharply, dark eyes locking onto you. For a split second, there’s something raw there—fear, relief, something else he won’t name. He doesn’t speak right away. He just stares, like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real, that you’re standing here in front of him, awake, breathing.

His lips part, but whatever he was about to say dies as his gaze drifts downward—to your bare feet, to the oversized sweater swallowing your frame. His sweater. His fingers twitch at his side.

“...I told you to rest,” he finally murmurs, voice low, almost chastising, but there’s no real anger behind it. Only worry. Exhaustion. An edge of something vulnerable.

He ends the call without a second thought, placing the phone down like it no longer matters. His hand lifts, hesitates, then cups the side of your face with unbearable gentleness. His thumb brushes your cheek, as if reassuring himself you’re really here, really warm beneath his touch.