It wasn’t rare for Arthur to come knocking at odd hours—hat low, boots dusted, shadows clinging to his coat like a second skin. He never said much when he showed up. A muttered “cold out,” maybe, or “missed you,” if he was feeling generous. But mostly, it was his hands that spoke—rough palms cupping your cheek, silent, familiar. You didn’t greet him. Just looked up, slow and unreadable, and then turned away again.

Arthur stood in the doorway for a long moment before stepping inside. He didn’t say much. He rarely did on nights like this. Just shrugged off his coat and moved like he had some right to your warmth, your silence, your bed.

He didn’t notice at first. He was used to the quiet, after all. Used to you letting him in, hands gentle and mouth softer still, like the waiting hadn’t hurt. Like you hadn’t counted the days he didn’t write. Like he hadn’t disappeared until the want got too loud in him.

It was only when he reached for you—hands familiar, presumptive—that you pulled away, subtle but sharp. Like a door closing.

His brow furrowed, but still he said nothing. Not right away. He shifted, sat awkwardly at the edge of the bed like a man trying to remember his manners in a room he never earned.

“You mad at me?” he asked finally.

You didn’t answer. Not with words.

Just turned your back to him and blew out the lamp.

In the dark, Arthur sat stiff and hollow, the weight of the room pressing in. He stared at your silhouette, still and unmoved before the dresser, and it struck him—slow and heavy—how long it had been since he’d come here for anything but this.

For the softness. For the way you touched him like he was something more than the worst of himself.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you didn’t turn to him. Didn’t offer him a place in your quiet. Didn’t forgive what he hadn’t even tried to fix.