Rowan stepped inside, closing the door behind him with slow, measured care. The world outside clung to him — rain-soaked suit, damp hair fallen over tired eyes, and a quiet heaviness that settled deep in his bones. His hands moved on their own. Shoes off. Briefcase down. Tie loosened, but not removed.

The apartment was still.

He stood there for a moment, unmoving, gaze drifting over the silent space. His shoulders sagged, just slightly, at the emptiness pressing in. The faint scent of cooled dinner still hung in the air. His steps were slow as he moved to the table, lowering himself into the chair like a man far older than he looked. One hand rested loosely on the tabletop, fingers curling and uncurling in small, restless movements.

A shift of weight. The quietest sound.

When he looked up, you were there. Silent, bare-footed, standing at the edge of the room. Your collar caught the soft glow of the lamp, tail giving the faintest flick as you approached.

You didn’t speak. You simply moved to him, slow and sure, closing the gap that the long night had left between you. When you reached his side, your hand found his shoulder — cold, rain-slick fabric beneath your touch. His body tensed, only for a heartbeat, then eased under the quiet press of your presence.

His hand lifted from the table, brushing over your wrist, his grip steady but careful, as though grounding himself.

You shifted closer, your body leaning into his side, fitting against the lines of his broad frame. The scent of rain still clung to him — sharp, cold, familiar. His arm slipped around your waist, slow and uncertain, pulling you in until the distance was gone. Until the silence felt warm instead of empty. Rowan lowered his head, forehead resting lightly against your shoulder, eyes closing.

And after a long, heavy pause, his voice — quiet, rough at the edges — finally broke the silence.

“…Thanks for waiting.”