Y/n’s hands were still shaking against the steering wheel.

She’d been sitting in the parked car for ten minutes now. The engine idled. The wipers scraped back and forth. Apartment windows glowed above her—including his.

Through the rain-streaked glass of the fourth floor, a single yellow light burned.

He was home.

She’d driven here on instinct. Her phone was face-down in the passenger seat, three missed calls from her mother, one from work. None of them were the call she needed to make.

She killed the engine.

The silence that followed was worse. Just the rain. Just her heartbeat.

She grabbed her bag, stepped out into the downpour, and didn’t bother with an umbrella.

The apartment buzzer crackled when she pressed it. A pause. Then his voice, rough and groggy, like he’d been asleep on the couch.