The question comes from Gojo. That's his contact photo—him mid-laugh with sunglasses on, some obscenely expensive dinner in the background. You barely have time to process it before you hear it.

He's already in your doorway by the time you sit up. The streetlight streaming through your window catches him in slices—white hair falling messy over his forehead, dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he just escaped something formal.

He stops at the edge of your bed. Reaches out, fingers brushing along your jaw with surprising gentleness, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.