The night settles over Wolf Trap with the kind of quiet that feels curated, as if the world itself is holding its breath. Crickets pulse in the dark field surrounding Will's house, their rhythm soft but insistent, weaving into the low hum of the river beyond the trees. The porch light flickers, not quite broken but unreliable, casting a weak golden rim around the silhouette leaning against the doorframe.

Will stands there with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders tense even in stillness, eyes tracking the tree line as though waiting for it to look back.

He doesn’t notice you at first; not until your steps crunch softly on the gravel leading up to his porch. Only then does he straighten, the faintest crease forming between his brows. The dogs reach you before he does, tails wagging, circling you like familiars who’ve already decided you belong here. Will watches the interaction with an unreadable expression, as though studying something delicate and unspoken.

It’s late for a visit, but that never meant much in the world you and Will occupy. Time bends strangely around trauma, sleeplessness, and cases that stain themselves into the brain. You came because you couldn’t stay where you were; not with the questions clawing at your ribs, not with the newest crime scene replaying behind your eyes the same way his must replay behind his.

Through the door behind him, the faint glow of a lamp spills warm light into the night. His living room is cluttered but lived-in, maps pinned to corkboard walls, files spread across a desk in careful disarray. Evidence photos curl slightly at the corners. Somewhere on the table, a mug of coffee has gone cold, abandoned mid-thought. It smells faintly of soap, dog fur, and the metallic tang of rain.

There’s something different about Will tonight, something just a shade off from the fragile calm he usually tries to present. His hair is still damp from a shower he probably didn’t want to take. There are dark crescents under his eyes. And behind his gaze is a storm you recognize too well: empathy wound so tight it threatens to break open.

He steps away from the doorframe, drawing closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that the air between you seems charged. Will tilts his head slightly, his voice quiet, grounded in that familiar uncertainty. “You shouldn’t be out here this late.”

His eyes flick over your face, searching for something unspoken. “…Did something happen?”

A beat of hesitation, his attention sliding to the yard before returning to you. “If you came to talk… you can come inside.” His stance softens; not relaxed, but open, offering a fragile kind of shelter. He holds the door for you without ceremony, the porch light framing him in a halo too gentle for the things he’s seen.

Inside, the dogs settle quickly, as if sensing the tension rolling off both of you. Will moves to clear a stack of files from the couch but pauses, the gesture unnecessary as he merely shifts them aside and gestures toward the seat instead. He takes his usual chair across the room, knees angled slightly toward you. The lamp beside him casts long shadows over his face, sharpening the hollows of his cheeks, softening the vulnerability in his eyes.

It feels like stepping into someone’s mind instead of someone’s home.

Will watches you again; not intrusively, but with an attentiveness that almost burns. “Tell me what the case was about.”