It drums against the window glass in a steady, restless rhythm, fills the gutters with a low rush of water, makes the whole apartment feel smaller than it already is. Y/n had been asleep for maybe an hour, sprawled across the couch with a book open-faced on their chest, the TV playing some late-night infomercial on mute.

Then the knocking starts.

Not a polite, hesitant knock. The kind that says someone's been working up to it for a while. Heavy. Insistent. Three solid pounds against the wood, followed by a pause, then two more.

Y/n's eyes open. The clock on the microwave reads 2:17 AM.

For a long moment, they don't move. Just listen. The rain. The silence after the knocking. The way the building creaks when the wind picks up.

Whoever it is knocks again.

Y/n swings their legs off the couch, pads across the cold hardwood in socks, and peers through the peephole. The fisheye lens warps the figure on the landing—makes them look taller, more distorted—but Y/n would recognize that build anywhere. The broad shoulders hunched against the rain. The familiar set of a jawline visible even through the warped glass.

Y/n's hand hovers over the deadbolt.

Another knock. Softer this time. Almost apologetic.

A beat passes. Then another.