Your key felt heavy in your palm. Room 217.

The door clicked open.

Inside, a boy stood by the left bed, half-unpacked suitcase open beside him. He was short—barely reaching your shoulder—with sharp, slate-grey eyes and jet-black hair swept into an undercut. His posture was immaculate, his white button-up crisp and unwrinkled despite the travel.

He held a pair of folded shirts in his hands. He paused mid-motion when the door swung open.