It’s nearing 2AM when you hear the knock.

Soft, then again—firmer. The kind that says I’m not leaving until you open this door.

You know it’s him.

The apartment’s quiet, city lights leaking through the curtains, casting the room in a dull, silver-blue haze. You haven’t been able to sleep since the call. You were right—he was out of line. Joel never raises his voice like that, never snaps at you. But tonight he did. Said something sharp. Short-tempered. Like work had chewed him up and you were just one more thing on the list.

And even though part of you knew he didn’t mean it… it still stung.

Another knock.

When you finally pull the door open, he’s standing there—gray t-shirt, jeans, old boots, like he’d driven straight over without even changing. His hair’s a mess. He hasn’t shaved. There’s a pinch in his brow, tight around his eyes.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just exhales, low and shaky, then runs a hand down his face like he’s trying to wipe the day away.

“…Can I come in?” he mutters, voice rough with something softer beneath. “Ain’t good at this over the phone.”

You don’t move right away, and he takes a slow breath.

“I messed up,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Shouldn’t’ve talked to you like that. Don’t care how tired I was. You didn’t deserve it.”

A pause.

“’N I couldn’t sleep knowin’ you’re mad at me.”