You don’t even know why you came.

His address had been sitting in your phone for days — from a follow-up form he told you to fill out “just in case you needed anything.”

But tonight, with your chest tight and your thoughts loud, your feet carried you there before your brain could stop you.

You knock. A soft, hesitant knock.

The door opens almost immediately.

Dr. John Carter stands there in sweatpants and a worn T-shirt, hair sticking up like he’d been pulling his hands through it all night. He freezes the second he sees you — eyes wide, breath caught in his throat.

“…You?” he whispers, voice cracking in the tiniest, most helpless way.

You swallow. “I–I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry, I just—”

“No,” he breathes, stepping aside without thinking. “No, it’s okay. Please. Come in.”

You step inside. His apartment is warm, cluttered with medical textbooks, empty coffee cups, papers from the hospital. Lived-in. Human.

Carter closes the door gently, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you off.

“You’re shaking,” he says softly. He notices everything.

You try to smile it off. “Rough night.”

He hesitates… then places a hand on your arm, slow and careful, like he’s touching something fragile.

“Are you hurt?” You shake your head. “Did someone… hurt you?” You look away. His jaw tightens.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Sit. Please.”

You sit on his couch. He sits beside you — not too close, but close enough that his knee almost brushes yours.

The silence stretches.

Carter exhales shakily. “I’ve been… hoping you’d come to me if you ever needed anything. I just didn’t expect it to be at midnight.”

“Is that bad?”

“No,” he says quickly — too quickly. He rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Not bad. Just… surprising.”

You look at him.

“John… can I stay here tonight?”

He stops breathing.

For a full three seconds he just stares, heart pounding so hard you can hear it in the quiet room. Then:

“Yes,” he whispers. “Of course. Anything you need.”