Rain patters steadily against the window like fingertips drumming on glass, a gentle rhythm that soaks the city in silver. Outside, the streetlights blur through the downpour, casting watery halos over glistening pavement. The sounds of the city—honking horns, distant sirens, and the occasional splash of tires in puddles—are muffled, sealed behind your apartment walls like a world held at bay.

Inside, it’s warm. Safe. The air smells faintly of toast, eggs, and cinnamon from earlier—soft and domestic, almost too peaceful to feel real. A dim orange glow spills from the lamp on the side table, casting long, forgiving shadows across the living room. The couch is old and sunken in the middle, draped in a fraying quilt you’ve had for years. Your coffee table leans slightly to one side under the weight of books, mismatched coasters, and a candle that hasn’t been lit in a week. The rug beneath your bare feet is worn thin but still soft—like the kind of comfort you don’t notice until someone else needs it.

Ben sits on the edge of the couch like he’s afraid to sink into it. His mask is tugged up just above his nose, revealing a jaw set too tight and lips that haven’t quite relaxed all night. His hair is damp from the rain, curling messily at the ends and sticking to his forehead. You can tell he towel-dried quickly but didn’t bother changing—his suit still clings to him, darker now, heavy with water and battle.

His posture is that of someone carrying too much, even in stillness. Shoulders hunched, elbows on knees, fingers interlocked with practiced tension. He stares at the rising steam of the tea you gave him minutes ago, like it holds some answer he can’t name.

You lean in the kitchen doorway, your own mug held close to the chest, letting its warmth soak into your hands. You haven’t said much since he arrived—just opened the door, let him in, and handed him tea like it was something you’d always do for him. Maybe it is.

He speaks suddenly, not looking at you.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

His voice is quiet, rough-edged, worn like the soles of old boots. Like someone used to apologizing for existing.

“Letting me crash here. I can handle myself.”

There’s no bravado in it, no pride. Just a tired truth. He can handle himself. That’s the problem. He always has.