The paper in your hand says Suite 417. The ink is slightly smudged, but the number is unmistakable. You drag your suitcase down the hallway, past a girl crying on a beanbag chair and a guy trying to carry two boxes and a desk lamp in one trip. You stop at the door marked 417.

You knock once. Nothing. You knock again. Still nothing. So you try the handle. Unlocked.

The suite is already occupied. A black jacket thrown over the back of the couch. A pair of beat-up sneakers beside the coffee table. Music playing quietly from somewhere deeper inside — something low and guitar-heavy.

Then a bedroom door opens.

Roman Bellamy steps out, hair slightly mussed, grey-blue eyes catching the weak light from the window. He stops. You stop. For several seconds, neither of you says anything.

His eyes move from you to the suitcase. Then back to you. His expression shifts slowly from confusion to something much more disbelieving.