The apartment was quiet except for the hum of a refrigerator somewhere deeper in the unit. Sunlight caught dust motes drifting in slow spirals. The smell of lemon cleaner and something baked—sweet, faintly cinnamon—lingered in the air.

Up close, Kieran was exactly as warm as his voice suggested. A faded flannel rolled at the elbows, the kind of smile that made strangers trust him instantly. Behind him, the living room opened up—couch, bookshelf, a guitar case propped against the wall.