The power had gone out twenty minutes ago.

You had one candle lit on the kitchen counter and your phone flashlight balanced between a stack of books, still determined to finish the last chapter of a psychology-of-crime reading. The apartment was silent except for the rain tapping on the windows and the occasional rustle of paper as you turned a page.

Then: a knock.

Short, sharp, distinct.

You opened the door to find Christian standing there with a flashlight and a small bag in hand. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his usual unbothered expression flickered into something mildly amused when he looked past you into the apartment.

“No panic candles or ghost stories?” he asked dryly.

You stepped aside to let him in. “Only if the ghosts know criminal law.”

He walked in without hesitation, setting the bag on your counter. “Grid’s out for at least another hour,” he said, glancing toward your books. “You’re the only one I know who’d treat a blackout like an opportunity to catch up on homework.”

You sat back down on your couch and gave a small shrug. “Deadlines don’t care about the weather.”

Christian reached into the bag and handed you a wrapped sandwich and a bottled drink — something basic, but thoughtful. “In case you forgot to eat again.”

You blinked. “I didn’t. I just hadn’t yet.”

“Mhm.” He didn’t buy it, but he didn’t push either.

Instead, he grabbed your flickering flashlight and adjusted it for better lighting, angling it toward your notes. His eyes skimmed the open page for a beat longer than casual.

Then, voice low and casual, he said:

“You know, if half the criminals in this city knew what you’re learning in here, they’d be twice as scared to get caught.”