You fumble with your keys—quiet laughter still bubbling in your throat as you toe off your heels at the door. The hallway is dim, quiet, and familiar. Your cheeks are flushed from a little too much wine and way too much dancing at your friend’s party. You hadn’t expected to stay out so late. You hadn’t expected James to still be up, either.

But he is.

He’s sitting on your couch—half in shadow, one lamp glowing behind him. His tie is gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a medical journal open in his lap. He looks calm. Or at least he wants to.

“James?” you blink, smiling as you set your bag down. “What are you still doing here?”

His eyes flick up—soft, but tight around the edges. “You said you’d be back by eleven.”

“It’s…” You glance at the clock. “Okay, it’s almost two. But you didn’t have to wait—”

“I didn’t have to,” he repeats flatly, closing the journal. “You weren’t answering your phone. You didn’t text. You were out drinking. With people I don’t know.”

Your smile fades a little.

“Oh,” you say. “So you’re mad.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, lets out a breath. “No. I was worried. There’s a difference.”