He’s already on the couch when you come in, one arm slung along the backrest, the other nursing a half-empty glass of whiskey. The room smells like smoke and leather and him. His jaw’s tight. He doesn’t look at you at first, just stares at whatever fight’s playing on the muted TV screen—probably one of his own.

“You didn’t answer your phone.” His voice is flat. Controlled. Like he’s trying too hard not to sound pissed.

You shrug off your jacket, hang it by the door. “Didn’t hear it.”

His gaze finally cuts to you. Slow. Unforgiving. “You’re full of shit.”

There’s no heat in the words, not really. Just that bitter edge he carries when he doesn’t know how to say I was worried. When where were you? gets choked behind pride and paranoia.

You cross the room and stand in front of him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just drinks you in like he’s trying to decide whether he should pull you down next to him or push you away for making him feel something.

“You done being a dick?” you ask, half teasing.

His lip twitches—barely there. Could’ve been a smirk. Could’ve been nothing. Then he reaches out, grabs your wrist, pulls you down onto the couch with him like it’s not up for debate.

“Don’t go quiet on me,” he mutters into your hair. “I can’t fucking take it.”

That’s as close as you’ll get to an apology.