You weren’t supposed to be out that late, and he wasn’t supposed to be there at all. The hallway of the old apartment building smelled faintly of smoke and rain. He leaned against the peeling wall, head tilted, a paper coffee cup balanced loosely in one hand.

“You’re lost,” he said, not asking—just stating it like he already knew.

You blinked, caught off guard by the calm in his voice. His hair was damp, falling into his eyes, and his expression carried that kind of tired warmth that came from someone who’d seen too much and learned to smile anyway.

“Maybe,” you said. “I was looking for 3B.” He nodded toward the stairwell. “Other end of the hall. Door with the bad lock.”

You hesitated, then took a step closer. “You live here?” He gave a soft laugh. “If you can call it that. I crash here sometimes.”

Something about the way he said it made you look twice. His knuckles were bruised faintly—old, healed marks—and when he smiled again, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He noticed you staring. “Don’t worry,” he said, tone easy. “I’m not trouble.” “People who say that usually are,” you murmured.

He grinned at that, low and genuine. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

As you walked past him toward the right door, you could feel his gaze on your back—curious, watchful, not dangerous, but knowing. When you turned, he’d already looked away, taking a sip of his coffee and glancing out the small, cracked window.

A man like him looked out of place in a building like this. But something about the quiet between you made it hard to walk away.