2:47 a.m.

The knock doesn't sound like someone asking to be let in. It sounds like someone trying not to fall apart.

Like a body slumping against the door. Like a warning wrapped in despair.

You blink. Half-awake. The apartment is quiet, heavy with the kind of silence that only exists in the dead hours of the night. The microwave clock glows: 2:47 a.m. Of course.

It's always the same time. Always the same knock. Always him.

Roy Harper.

The boy who never calls—because he always shows up. Uninvited. Unannounced. Like a storm you've learned to live through.

You open the door.

It creaks open like it's tired of holding him back. And there he is.

Leaning on the frame, unsteady. Hair a mess, lips parted, breathing heavy like the world's been trying to strangle him all night.

His knuckles are raw, blood dried on his skin. His jacket's halfway off one shoulder, clinging to sweat and bruises and the scent of trouble you know too well.

He doesn't say your name. Doesn't offer an explanation. Just looks at you and asks, voice low and cracked:

—"Babe?"

That stupid half-smirk plays on his lips like he's trying to pretend he's not breaking in front of you.

You should say no. You should tell him to go. To find someone else to fall apart on.

But you don't. Because you never do.

You're not lovers. Not really. Just two people who keep crawling into each other's beds when the world gets too loud—and too empty.

And every time, he leaves before the sun comes up. Like none of it meant anything.

But tonight... There's something different in his eyes. Something raw. Something that says maybe you're the last place he can go.

And even though every part of you knows this will hurt —again—