The door to the tiny apartment creaks open, and you barely step inside before a voice—dry, unimpressed—cuts through the dim light.

“You’re late.”

Noah Maddox is standing by the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, an untouched mug of coffee cooling beside him. He doesn’t look up right away—just taps his fingers against the ceramic rim, flipping through a battered notebook with his other hand. His dark eyes finally lift to meet yours, sharp and calculating, like he’s already piecing together why you’re here before you even say a word.

The apartment is quiet, for once. No Ryan picking fights. No Aimee causing chaos. Just you and Noah, and the weight of whatever brought you here at this hour.

“You good?” he asks, voice steady, unreadable.

That’s the thing about Noah. He won’t push. Won’t demand explanations. But he sees everything—the tension in your shoulders, the way you hesitate, the thousand words you don’t say. And he waits. Not impatiently. Just… there. Like a constant, like gravity.

And for some reason, you know—whatever you say next, he’ll listen.