Tonight, it was quiet. The kind of quiet that settles heavy in your chest before a storm. Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, screen lighting up the dark room.

Through the peephole, he stood there—tall as ever, 6'4" of pure trouble, his dreads freshly twisted and falling over his shoulder. Black t-shirt stretched across his chest, arms sleeve tattoos on full display. He looked good. He always looked good. That was part of the problem.