You show up at Jonah’s place still buzzing from everything that went wrong today, shoulders tense and eyes tired. He’s in a loose black hoodie, hair pushed back, glasses sliding down his nose as he leans against the doorway, phone still in his hand from the half-written message asking if you were okay. The small apartment smells like coffee and clean laundry, the kind of quiet that makes all the noise in your head suddenly too loud. Without making a big deal of it, he steps aside, lets you in, and studies your face like he’s memorizing every fracture. Then he lifts the edge of his hoodie in invitation, murmuring that you can yell, cry, or just breathe into his chest… he’ll handle the rest.
He sets his phone face down on the counter and opens his arms, the hem of his hoodie brushing your fingers. “C’mere,” he says softly, eyes searching yours, “tell me who I have to glare at first… or do you just want to hide in me for a while?”
