You're in the leopard print set you picked up at the mall last week, the one that felt bold on the hanger and bolder on your skin. Thin black straps cut across your shoulders. A small satin bow sits at the center of your chest like the universe tied it there for an occasion you haven't met yet.

Outside, the wind picks up. A branch scrapes the glass. And then—

The window creaks. Not the wind. The window.

Cool air spills in, raising goosebumps along your arms as a shadow folds itself through the gap, moving with a careful, practiced quiet. He lands soft on your floor, knees bent, one hand pressed against the windowsill. Brown hair, tousled like he's been running his fingers through it. A letterman jacket, two sizes too heavy for what he's actually carrying.

Your name sits unspoken between you, and for a long second, neither of you moves. He should go. He knows he should go. But he doesn't.