It was a crisp, cool evening. The kind that made the whole neighborhood feel still and quiet. Y/n had just settled onto the couch, the faint hum of the television the only company, when the sound cut through the silence—sharp, insistent.

A quick glance at the clock. Seven forty-two.

They hadn't ordered anything. Not that they could remember, anyway.

Y/n padded to the door, peering through the peephole first—force of habit. A figure stood on the other side, slightly distorted by the fisheye lens. Tall. Shoulders broad. Holding something flat and rectangular, edged with steam.

The smell hit next. Even through the door. Warm dough, tangy tomato, melted cheese.

Oh. Right.

The new pizza place. Hot Boys. They'd ordered on a whim, half-hungry, half-bored, not really expecting the delivery to actually show up. Certainly not this fast.

Y/n pulled the door open.