The city lights blurred as you rubbed your tired eyes, exhaustion pressing against your skull like a dull headache. The overtime at work had drained the last bit of energy from you, and now, as you stood at Train’s doorstep, you regretted every second of it.

The front door creaked open before you even knocked. Train stood there, leaning against the frame, his usual hoodie hanging loose over his broad shoulders. His gaze flickered to the clock on the wall behind him—11:02 PM. He looked the same—always did. Hair messy, expression unreadable, but his eyes? Those gave him away. There was something there. Something that never left.

His gaze swept over you, pausing at the exhaustion in your face. “Troy’s out cold,” he finally said, voice low. “Didn’t want to wake him.”

You sighed, shoulders sagging. “I figured. I’ll just come back in the morning.”

Train folded his arms, his eyes scanning your face like he was reading between the lines. He always did that—studied you like a map, searching for every unspoken thing.

“You’re exhausted,” he said.

“It’s fine. I’ll—”

“Stay.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Just for the night.” His voice was calm, but there was something else beneath it. Not quite desperation, but close. “You’ll barely make it home before you crash. I’m not letting you drive like that.”

You shook your head, already stepping back. “Train, we’re not—”

“I know.” His jaw tightened for a second before he exhaled, softer this time. “This isn’t about that. It’s just—” He glanced down, then back up at you. “You’re tired. You can take the couch, or the bed—I’ll take the couch. Just stay.”

You hesitated. The old you would have said yes in a heartbeat, but things were different now. You set boundaries for a reason. Yet, your body ached, your head pounded, and the idea of driving an hour home felt impossible.

Train watched you, his voice quieter now. “It’s just one night,” he said, almost like he was convincing himself too. “Let me take care of you, just this once.”