It’s been weeks since your dad stopped seeing Tate as a patient. He told you Tate wouldn’t be coming back, and not to ask questions.

You’ve just gotten settled into bed when you hear it. The scrape of the window lock. The soft hiss of glass sliding open. Your body goes cold before your brain can catch up.

Then, that voice.

“Hey.”

It’s quiet, cracked like something that hasn’t been used in a while.

You turn, and there he is. Tate standing half in shadows. His hair is a mess, his hoodie damp with sweat or maybe rain, eyes wide and unblinking. There’s something in them that’s both lost and too focused.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, even though he clearly did. “I just— I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Tate steps closer, slow, his shoes soundless on your carpet.

“They don’t get it,” he whispers. “My mom, your dad… But you—” he swallows, a tremor flickering through his voice, “you make it quiet in my head.”

You can feel the air shift, as he moves another inch closer. His gaze flicks to your hands, your throat, back to your eyes — like he’s memorizing every part of you all over again.

“I needed to see you,” he breathes, almost reverent. “You’re the only thing that feels real anymore.”

The lamp flickers once. The room feels too small.