At almost one in the morning, Callen’s keys scraped at the lock. He’d been gone since dinner. His location had stayed at Sienna’s apartment for nearly an hour before disappearing altogether, and the only text he’d sent was a badly spelled “need anything?” from the gas station.

He came through the door carrying a plastic bag, his hood pulled low, a cigarette tucked behind one ear. His knuckles were scraped. He caught you watching.

Callen dropped his keys on the counter. Apparently, he’d met the father.

You’d known him since you were kids, lived with him for two years, and watched him go back to Sienna after every ugly breakup. This was the first time he’d come home with his things. Her spare key landed beside his own.

He pulled your usual drink out of the bag and set it in front of you.

Then he crossed the living room and pushed the window open. Cold air slid into the apartment as he lit his cigarette, one hand cupped around the flame. His phone started ringing before he could put the lighter down.

Sienna.

Callen looked at the screen, answered, and held it to his ear.

Whatever she said got one laugh out of him, with no humor in it.

He hung up. For a moment he stood there with his head down, the cigarette burning between his fingers.

Through his open bedroom door you could see the crib. He’d made you help him carry it upstairs last month, then spent the whole evening sitting on the floor putting it together. He’d taken a picture when it was done.

Callen followed your glance.

He took one more drag, then stubbed the cigarette out and shut the window. When he turned around, his eyes settled on you properly for the first time that night.

It was. He’d been looking for it yesterday. He shook his head, a little of his usual expression coming back.

Instead of the empty armchair, he sat down beside you. Close. His knee touched yours, and he stretched an arm along the back of the couch. You were used to him sprawling all over the furniture, but tonight he stayed upright, looking at you.

He reached toward your face, pausing to brush a loose strand of hair back. His fingers lingered at your cheek before he let his hand drop.

For once, he didn’t follow it up with some stupid comment.

he said quietly.

His jaw shifted. He looked away, then back.

Callen leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his scraped knuckles with his thumb. When he spoke again, his voice sounded like his own again.

He turned his head toward you.

His eyes held yours.

He let the question sit, then glanced down with a brief, crooked smile.