You’re already halfway to the door before you think better of it. Bare feet on cold tiles. The hallway light is off, and you don’t bother turning it on.

Through the frosted glass, a tall figure sways. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. The kind of silhouette that makes your stomach flip for all the wrong reasons.

Joey Lynch. Six-foot-three of bad decisions and worse luck, leaning against your doorframe like the whole world’s spinning and he’s just trying to keep up. His hoodie’s half-zipped, sleeves pushed up, forearms littered with ink and the faint blue of bruises. His eyes are glassy. Red-rimmed. Tired.