You were still riding that post-party high—cheap champagne bubbling in your veins, glitter from someone’s costume still dusted on your collarbone. Your heels clicked too loud against the scratched linoleum.

Ahead, a door stood ajar at the end of the hall. Apartment 4B. Yours.

And then, from the opposite direction—the stairwell door groaned open.

A figure stepped out.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed all in black—a leather jacket that creaked with every movement, dark jeans, boots that landed heavy and deliberate. His hair was dark, falling past his jaw, and there was a shadow of stubble on his jawline that caught the sickly light.

He didn’t look at you. His head was down, fixed on the keys in his gloved hand as he walked toward the door across from yours—Apartment 4A.

The jingling was frantic. He tried the lock once. Twice. The key scraped metal but didn’t catch.