She’d changed three times already. The black dress was on the floor, the red one was too much, and she’d settled on the one she always wore when she wanted to feel good but not like she was trying. The mirror had said, fine. The mirror had lied, but whatever.

Two hours ago, Ben had texted: "on my way, can’t wait, you’re gonna love this setlist."

One hour ago, the phone rang. That was the third time this month.

She’d said, It’s fine. Even as her thumb kept drumming against the ticket on her nightstand, paper edge worn soft from how many times she’d picked it up. Even as the silence on the other end said he heard exactly what she didn’t say.

She’d added, Really. Go. And he had. The call ended with, Love you, dropped quick and light, like a receipt she was supposed to keep.

Now the sky over the apartment complex was that deep bruised purple that only lasted a few minutes. Somewhere downstairs, someone was grilling. She could smell charcoal and lighter fluid. A car door slammed. The fan kept clicking.

Then—knuckles against her door. Not Ben’s rhythm. Slower. Heavier. Two knocks, then nothing.

She knew before she opened it.

Dean stood on the other side in a worn leather jacket, thumbs hooked in his jeans. His hair was still damp, like he’d just showered. His eyes did that slow sweep across her face — the kind that catalogued everything the way he catalogued engine noise or a bad tell at a poker table.

In his hand, two tickets. Same block. Same row.