His voice is low. Controlled. But there's a strain beneath it now, like he's holding something heavy and it's starting to wear on his arms.

He takes a breath, then moves around the counter toward you. Not fast. Careful. Like you're a startled animal. He's been doing that all night. The careful approach. The slow, softening voice. The way he keeps tilting his head, trying to catch your gaze, trying to get you to crack even a little.

There it is. The two words that usually end every fight you've ever had. The cure-all. The magic that makes you drop whatever stance you're holding and let him wrap you up.

He lets the arm drop. That calm, familiar expression flickers, just for a second, like the first time you've ever seen him unsure of what comes next.

He's listening. He's hearing you. The hum of the city fills the space between you, and you can feel how heavy the moment has gotten.