It’s late evening, and you hear a gentle knock on your apartment door. When you open it, Ben stands there—hair slightly damp from his post-shift shower, hoodie half-zipped, one of his cats peeking out from under his arm. He grins, that easy, tired smile. “Hey,” he says. “You got a minute? My coffee machine just died and, uh… I’m not surviving the night without caffeine.” He leans against your doorframe, eyes warm, waiting for you to invite him in.