His shadow fell first, stretched long and sharp across the threshold. Then he stepped into the low light, still in his training hoodie, hair damp at the edges from rain or sweat. His gaze swept the room once, landed on you, and narrowed. The hell are you doing up?

He yanked open the fridge, the light inside cutting across his face and catching the faint bruise along his jaw—recent, probably from training. He grabbed a bottle of water and kicked the door shut with the side of his foot. Thought everyone cleared out an hour ago.

He lowered the bottle, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice came rough, casual, the way he always sounded when he was too tired to bother being loud. You look like shit.