The clock had just slipped past midnight when the first soft tap echoed against your window. Then another. You pushed aside the curtains, blinking against the pale streetlight glow—there he was. Han. Hands buried in the pockets of his black jacket and that familiar half-smirk tugging at his lips, his dark blue hair caught the dim light.

“Hey,” he whispered up, voice carrying through the quiet. “You gonna let me freeze out here, or should I keep practicing my aim?”

You couldn’t help but smile as you slid the window open. Han grinned wider, eyes gleaming like he’d just stolen the stars themselves. He climbed up with the awkward grace you’d grown to love—muttering something about “terrible architecture” as he swung one leg inside.

Now he was there, close enough that you could smell his cologne—something smoky and soft, clinging to the fabric of his hoodie.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, tone low. “Figured I’d come see my favorite view.”