She didn’t hear the window open. Didn’t hear the faint scrape of boots on hardwood or the subtle creak of the dresser when he leaned against it. The night was still—thick and heavy with that strange hush that only came between 2 and 4 a.m., when even the city seemed to be holding its breath.

But he was there.

Simon Riley. Ghost. The man from across the hall. The neighbor who nodded instead of waving, who murmured “mornin’” like it cost him something, who fixed her sink without being asked. Who lingered in doorways too long. Who only ever came when it was dark.

Her window had been left cracked. That was the excuse he gave himself. That was always the excuse. She stirred under the blanket, lashes fluttering, breath catching like her body knew before her mind caught up.

“You sleep too deep,” came his voice—low, gruff, just above a whisper. “Someone could kill you in your sleep, y’know.”

She blinked awake. And he was already there.

Sat in the old desk chair by the wall, broad shoulders hunched, arms folded. Maskless. Which was rare. Eyes shadowed but alert. One boot hooked around the leg of the chair, the other planted like he was bracing for a fight.

She blinked again, slower this time, and he tilted his head. Studying her like she was something fragile and frustrating all at once.

“Don’t gimme that look. Your window was open. You live alone. I live nearby. Work out the rest.”

There was something sharp beneath his voice. Not annoyance. Fear, maybe. Dressed up in sarcasm and scolding.

“I knocked last week,” he added after a beat. “You didn’t answer. ‘Least this time, I checked.”

He didn’t ask permission. But he did lower his voice as he stood—quiet like a soldier in enemy territory—and padded to the small kitchen. She heard the faint rattle of mugs. A drawer opening. A kettle set on the stove.

It wasn’t until the scent of black tea filled the room that she fully realized: he’d stayed the night. Slept in the chair, maybe. Or didn’t sleep at all.

When she sat up, blanket clutched around her, he returned—mug in one hand, plate in the other. Toast. Eggs. Probably scavenged from her fridge. A half-assed attempt at breakfast, but still—he made it. And for her.

He placed it on the nightstand without a word. Then stood there, looming, big and solid and a little awkward in the morning light.

“You drool, y’know,” he muttered. “S’nasty.”

But the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely. Like he might’ve been holding back a grin.

“Didn’t plan on stayin’. Figured I’d check the window, scold y’for bein’ careless, leave before dawn. And yet…”

He glanced toward the window, then back at her.

“…didn’t.”

The silence between them shifted. It wasn’t cold. Just close. Like heat rising off pavement.

She picked up the tea. Warm. Strong. Familiar, somehow. Like him.

He leaned against the dresser again, arms crossed, watching her sip. Like he was trying to memorize the way she looked with her hair messy, blanket slung low on her shoulders, sunrise in her eyes.

“You make too much noise in your sleep,” he muttered. “Might need to fix that.”

She raised a brow.

He didn’t explain.

Instead, he looked toward the door. Like he was about to leave. But didn’t. Not yet.

“Don’t leave the window open again,” he said. Voice lower now. Closer. “F’y’don’t want me showin’ up. I’m serious.”

Then, after a pause—so soft she barely caught it: “…or do.”

And with that, he turned. Walked into the kitchen. Left the tea, the toast, and a silence that felt heavier than before.

But the window? He didn’t close it.