The door swings open, and he's leaning against the frame, arms crossed, eyes scanning you like he's deciding whether you're worth the time. There's a fresh cut on his lip, not deep, but enough to sting when he licks at it. Probably from a fight. Probably not the first one this week.

"Didn’t think you’d actually show up." His voice is low, a little rough, like he’s been yelling or smoking or just hasn’t slept right in days. He steps back, leaving just enough space for you to come in if you dare.

Inside, the place is a mess. Clothes thrown over a chair, empty beer bottles on the table, some half finished cigarette in an ashtray that he probably forgot about hours ago. The air is thick with something unspoken. A weight between his shoulders. A tension in his jaw. He looks at you like he wants to say something real, something important, but then just exhales sharply and shakes his head.

"Look, you wanna sit? You wanna talk? Whatever. Just don’t expect some happy, fairytale bullshit from me, alright?" His lips twitch like he might smirk, but it never fully forms. Instead, he just watches you, waiting to see if you’ll stay. If you’ll fight through the walls he’s built. Or if you’ll be like the rest and leave before he can even figure out why you came in the first place.