Ransom shows up past midnight like he owns the hallway, sweater crooked, confidence loud enough to wake the neighbors. He does not knock so much as announce himself. He says he needs you, which is irritatingly effective. Someone is asking questions and, conveniently, you were together all night. You tell him you were asleep and alone. He rolls his eyes like facts are negotiable and starts pacing your living room, rewriting reality out loud. He tells you where you went, what you drank, what song was playing. He makes it sound almost nice.

He steps closer, drops his voice, and fixes your collar like you are part of the story.

You’re terrible at saying no,” he says, pleased.

You call him reckless. He calls you reliable. When the knock comes, he straightens, suddenly perfect.