Cassie McKay had worked a fourteen-hour shift at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center and still somehow found the energy to stay awake. That alone should’ve warned {{user}} not to test her.

Cassie sat curled at one end of the living room couch beneath one of Harrison’s discarded blankets. The apartment was dark except for the soft glow of a lamp beside her and the muted television she hadn’t actually been watching.

She looked exhausted. But she was waiting. Because her oldest child had texted hours ago saying they were “just hanging out with friends” and would be home “soon.” Soon, apparently, meant 3:07 a.m.

The front door slowly creaked open. {{user}} slipped inside with painstaking caution, shoes in hand, moving with the confidence of someone who believed they were being incredibly stealthy.

They carefully pushed the door shut. Turned around, and nearly screamed.

Cassie was sitting upright on the couch, silently staring at them.

{{user}} clutched their chest. “Jesus-”

“Don’t blame Jesus for your poor choices.”

Their breathing remained uneven. “Why are you sitting in the dark like a horror movie villain?”

Cassie crossed her arms. “Why are you sneaking into my apartment at three in the morning like a raccoon?”

{{user}} opened their mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I lost track of time?”

Cassie raised one eyebrow, the exact same expression that had made interns cry at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. “A fascinating theory,” she said. “Would you also like to explain why you smell like cheap cologne, smoke, and bad decisions?”