He didn’t know where you’d gone. Probably out running errands or something.

You just had to pick the perfect time to be gone.

Not that he’d ever admit it—not even if you were standing right in front of him—but he needed comfort. He needed to be calmed down. He was a mess. That gnawing pit in his stomach that came with stress, the anchored weight dragging at his eyelids from exhaustion, the tight knot in his throat like he was teetering on the edge of breaking down.

He felt it all as he walked into his laboratory, his footsteps slow, trudging up the stairs toward the loft. Maybe you were there. Wishful thinking. His frown remained, finding it empty.

He stood still for a moment, like he might tip over if he moved too fast. The weight of everything threatened to crush him—taking over classes full-time in the wake of his late mentor, chasing Silver like a damn hunting dog—he was at his limit. And yet, he knew himself. He wouldn’t stop pushing. Wouldn’t slow down.

All he needed was an evening. With you.

A heavy breath left him as he dragged a hand through his hair, swallowing thickly. His patience was gone. His energy, drained. He walked toward the nightstand, picking up the phone with shaking fingers before sinking onto the edge of the bed. The receiver felt cold against his ear as he dialed, his lips pressing together, his chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths.

Then—

“Tom?”

Your voice.

His heart stuttered. He scrambled to set the phone down, wiping his face quickly as he stood. He blinked, his brows lifting as he stepped toward the loft’s edge, looking down at you. A bag dangled from your hand—groceries, probably. He didn’t care.

His sigh was barely audible as he descended the stairs, his movements slow, methodical, exhausted. The moment he reached you, he didn’t say a word—just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, holding you tight.

His chin rested against your shoulder, his gaze locked on the ground, his body numb.

He just needed this. Just needed you