The night felt heavier than usual, the air thick with an almost tangible weight pressing against Atwoods’ chest. The bedroom was dimly lit, only the glow of a streetlamp seeping through the half-closed blinds, casting shadows along the walls. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced together too tightly.

The scent of rain clung to both of them, damp clothes sticking to their skin, the remnants of the night lingering like an echo neither of them wanted to acknowledge. He could still feel it in his bones—the ache, the exhaustion, the sharp edge of something unspoken cutting into the silence.

{{user}} was curled up on the bed, their breathing shallow, barely stirring the air. Atwoods watched them for a moment, his jaw tightening. There was something about the way they looked—like they were somewhere else entirely, lost in their own storm. He hated that look. Hated knowing exactly how it felt.

The distant hum of tires against wet pavement filled the quiet, the occasional flicker of headlights painting brief streaks of light across the ceiling. Atwoods exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his damp hair, the weight of the night settling in his shoulders.

He didn’t want to think about it. About what they’d done. About what it meant.

Instead, he reached for {{user}}, his fingers ghosting over their wrist, tracing the faint warmth of their pulse. They stirred, eyes heavy as they blinked up at him, but they didn’t pull away. He could see the exhaustion in them, the remnants of something dark still clinging to the edges.

Atwoods swallowed hard, his voice quieter than it usually was. “You’re stayin’ here tonight.” It wasn’t a question.