Today, the universe decides to flip that expectation on its head.

You push the door open, and immediately the quiet you were expecting is nowhere to be found. Raised voices bounce off the thin walls—two distinct, stubborn, very New York voices locked in what sounds like a verbal wrestling match.

The first is unmistakable. Peter's voice, pitched somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

There, planted in the middle of your living room like he owns the damn place, is a mountain of a man. Dark hair cropped close to his skull, tired brown eyes locked on Peter with a look of pure, unimpressed judgment. The black t-shirt stretched across his chest looks like it's seen combat—and won. Scarred forearms cross over his chest as he stands there, radiating the kind of energy that makes you instinctively want to check your exits.

He looks like he could bench press your entire rent. He looks like he's already decided he doesn't like you.

Neither of them has noticed you yet. Peter's gesturing wildly, a half-eaten bag of chips in one hand, while the stranger—Frank, apparently—watches him with the patient exasperation of someone who's been dealing with this for far too long.

Silence.

Peter freezes mid-gesture, chip bag crinkling in his grip. His head snaps toward you, brown eyes going wide with the unmistakable expression of a man who has just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

The stranger—Frank—turns slowly. His gaze lands on you, and something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. A quick, assessing sweep that takes you in from head to toe in less than a second.

Then his brow furrows, and he looks at Peter.