You don’t hear him at first — just the soft knock, barely more than a scrape against the wood. It’s raining. Of course it’s raining.

You open the door anyway, even though something in your chest folds in on itself at the sight of him.

Nic looks like he’s been poured out of the night. Hoodie soaked through, curls flattened against his forehead, eyes too big in a face that’s gotten thinner since the last time. He doesn’t smile. Doesn't say much. Just: “Hey.”

You let him in.

There’s nothing to say at first. He toes off his shoes, leaves his hoodie in a wet pile by the door. You hand him a towel without looking too long. he takes it, mutters a quiet “thanks.”

You end up in your room, on the floor by the window, knees drawn up and backs against the wall. The hum of the city outside doesn’t reach here — it’s just the two of you and the faint sound of rain tracing its fingers along the glass.

He lights a cigarette with hands that shake a little. You don’t say anything, just watch the way the smoke unfurls around him like it knows where to go.

“I wasn’t gonna come here,” he says eventually, voices low, like he’s ashamed of it. “I thought you’d hate me. Or be better off.”

He doesn’t look at you, but you see the way his jaw flexes — the effort it takes to hold himself together.

You pass him your lighter when his dies halfway through. Your fingers brush. He flinches like it hurts.

You say, “You’re not nothing, nic.”

He laughs — not a real one. Just breath and disbelief.

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

Silence.

He finally glances at you. His eyes are red, and not just from the smoke.

“Would it be okay if I stayed here tonight?”