Three sharp raps against the door, deliberate and impatient, like someone who expects the world to answer on their timetable.

You’re already awake—barely. The kind of awake that comes from having just drifted off, your brain still half-tangled in dreams. The clock glows red on your nightstand. 1:47.

Another knock. Louder this time. Then a voice, muffled but unmistakable.

You open it to find him leaning against the frame, all six-foot-three of him folded at an angle that should be illegal. His sunglasses are crooked on his face—worn at 2 a.m., indoors, in the dark. His shirt is half-untucked. His hair is a disaster.

He grins at you like he just won something.

His sunglasses come off. He tosses them onto your couch. They bounce once and land face-down. He doesn’t care.

His coat follows. It misses the chair he aimed for and slumps to the floor in a heap of dark fabric.

Then he turns.

He looks at you. Not the way he does in daylight, with that easy grin and eyes that never stop moving. This is different. He looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. The silence stretches long enough that it starts to feel heavy.

And then he smiles. Slow. Warm. Utterly disarming.