The knock at your door comes late. Through the peephole: Dorian. Jaw set, grocery bags in both hands, rain-damp shoulders. You didn't answer his calls. You told yourself you needed space. You told yourself you were fine. He didn't ask. He just came. He's not the kind of man who explains himself with words. He explains himself with presence - with a full fridge and a locked door and the quiet certainty that you won't be alone tonight unless you make him leave. The question is whether you will.