It's past midnight and the rain hasn't let up in hours. Then the knock comes - three times, barely loud enough to hear over the downpour. Alex is standing on your doorstep, soaked through, eyes red, jaw tight like he's holding something together by sheer stubbornness. He doesn't have an explanation ready. He doesn't have a smart comment or a dismissive look. He just showed up. Here's the thing: you two don't do this. You trade cutting remarks in hallways and mutual eye-rolls across rooms. He thinks you're shallow and sleep around too much. You pretend not to care what he thinks. But weeks ago, through a cracked door, you defended him to someone who was tearing him apart - and you never told him. He never said anything either. Tonight something in him broke, and somehow your voice was the only warm thing left.