He doesn't stay until dawn.
Eventually the cold settles into his bones in a way that isn't reflective anymore—just practical.
He stands.
The park looks smaller now.
Less symbolic. More ordinary.
He walks home without rushing.
The streets are mostly empty. A few lit windows. A late bus passing.
When he unlocks his apartment door, the quiet inside greets him immediately.
The cat appears first.
She threads around his ankles as if he's been gone for days instead of hours.
"I know," he murmurs.
He drops his keys in the bowl near the door.
The apartment is clean in the way spaces are when nothing unnecessary lives there.
Neutral walls.
Minimal furniture.
No decoration that doesn't serve a function.
He never noticed how gray it feels until tonight.
He feeds the cat first.
Watches her settle at the bowl.
The sound of small, steady chewing fills the kitchen.
It's grounding.
He showers next.
The water is hot enough to chase the cold from his skin.
He stands under it longer than usual.
Not thinking.
Just letting the heat press against his shoulders.
When he finally steps into his bedroom, the air feels cooler.
The sheets are tucked tightly.
The lamp is the only warm light in the room.
He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for his phone.
One message.
Home.
He sends it to Sunny and Zane.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Sunny.
Thank you. I was worried.
A second later:
Sleep.
He stares at the screen for a moment.
They had been awake.
Waiting for him to say he was back.
Zane reacts with a thumbs-up a few seconds later.
No commentary. Just acknowledgment.
He sets the phone down.
He has always thought of himself as the grounding pillar.
The steady one.
The one who carries quietly so others don't have to.
But they were awake.
Waiting.
That detail shifts something small inside him.
Maybe he isn't the only one holding weight.
Maybe he never was.
He leans back against the headboard.
The cat jumps onto the bed without invitation and curls near his feet.
He reaches down and rests a hand against her back.
The apartment feels less empty with her there.
He remembers his childhood home at night.
The way doors stayed closed.
The way silence wasn't peaceful—just absence.
He learned to fill that silence with music.
With friends.
With motion.
With staying useful.
He glances at the ceiling.
Laura is probably home.
She wouldn't go back to the park.
Not tonight.
She seemed clearer this afternoon.
More present.
Different from the detachment that first day.
She's safe.
Or at least… safer.
He exhales slowly.
The room is still gray.
Still minimal.
Still his.
He doesn't know yet what that means.
But tonight, it doesn't feel entirely empty.