The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, the only sound in the dimly lit apartment. You sat on the couch, the soft glow of the lamp beside you casting long shadows across the room.

The place smelled faintly of the dinner you’d cooked hours ago, still covered and waiting on the table.

The door finally clicked open. John stepped inside, shoulders heavy, his combat jacket still on, boots scuffed from another long day. He looked exhausted eyes ringed with shadows, jaw tight, body moving like every step weighed a hundred pounds.

He froze when he saw you waiting there, your expression somewhere between worry and quiet frustration. Carver glanced away quickly, running a hand over his face.

“Didn’t think you’d still be up,” he muttered, voice rough.