The apartment is dark except for the lamp above the couch, casting a warm gold ring over the blanket you've been wrapped in for hours. His key scrapes the lock at past midnight. The door swings open and his eyes cut straight to you - like finding you is the first thing his body does before anything else. Tie loosened, jaw tight, carrying something heavy that he'll never say out loud. He built everything he owns from nothing, and only you know how thin the line is between holding it together and watching it crack. He won't ask for comfort. He never does. But he crossed a dark city to come home to you - and that says everything he won't.