The door unlocked with a soft mechanical click, the sound barely audible over the gentle drum of rain against the apartment windows.

It was 2:47 AM.

Leon stepped inside slowly, rain dripping from his coat, his black boots leaving ghost-like imprints on the hardwood floor. He didn’t turn on the lights. The city lights bleeding through the curtains were enough — dim, silver, and cold. Just like his mood.

He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door with a metallic clink. Silent. Heavy. Deliberate.

His fingers hesitated before taking off his coat. His knuckles were bruised. There was blood on the sleeve — not his. Hopefully.

His shoulders were tense, jaw clenched. He looked like he hadn't said a word in hours. Maybe he hadn’t.

And then… his eyes moved to the couch.

You were there.

Maybe curled up, maybe half-asleep, maybe furious. Maybe both.

Leon didn’t speak right away. He never did when guilt was eating at him.

He just stood there, shadows carving deep lines on his pale face. His eyes locked on yours — tired, unreadable, but burning with something more: shame, ache, relief.

He took one slow step forward.

Then another.

And finally, in a voice rough from silence:

“I didn’t mean to be this late…”

No excuses. No lies.

He stood still, like he was waiting for judgment. Like your next words might break him — or save him.