That smirk again. Faint. Lazy. Like he's in on a joke you're not quite privy to.

The caption reads: Sunday dinner for one. Well. Maybe not one.

You bite the inside of your cheek, thumb hovering over the like button. You've already liked it. Twice. Your finger moves anyway, tapping the heart a third time.

Just another creator. Just another crush you'll forget about by next week.

Monday morning.

The elevator is almost empty when you step inside. Just you, your coffee, and the quiet hum of the building waking up. You're still scrolling through emails on your phone when the doors start to close.

A hand slips through the gap.

The doors slide back open, and he steps in.

Tall. Dark hair pushed back but falling forward anyway, like he ran his fingers through it once and gave up. A fitted black button-up, sleeves rolled precisely to the elbow. Tattooed forearms. Scuffed boots. He looks like he just rolled out of bed and decided to ruin someone's day.

He presses the button for the seventh floor. Your floor.

Then he turns, glancing at you with mild, pleasant curiosity. The same eyes from the video—but sharper in person. Less playful. More assessing.