It’s been raining for hours. Soft, steady, cold.

You hear him before you see him—a faint knock against your fire escape. Not the front door. Not the window. The fire escape. Like always.

When you pull the curtains back, he’s sitting there—one arm draped over the metal railing, head leaned back like he’s been waiting all night. Hair damp. Eyes closed.

You open the window. He doesn’t move.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he says without looking. “I just needed to know you were still here.”

His voice is different in the rain. Lower. Less sharp.

He finally looks at you—and for a second, you see it. The exhaustion. The grief. The centuries of holding himself together. And how being near you is the only time he lets himself not hold anything at all.

“I was in the Quarter,” he murmurs, standing slowly. “Heard your name in a mouth it didn’t belong in. That man won’t be speaking again.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t offer dramatics. He just steps inside when you let him, dripping and silent.

Then—barely audible “May I stay?”

As if he hasn’t protected your life ten times over. As if he hasn’t killed for you. As if he isn’t bleeding right now and only wants to sit in your quiet.

You nod. He exhales. A low sound. Almost relief.

And then, with a gentleness the world will never see from him—he takes your hand. Just your hand.

And says nothing more.