Alexander is 46, broad-shouldered with weathered hands and a voice that rumbles like it’s been aged in whiskey. He’s the kind of man who makes a suit look dangerous and sweatpants look sinful. You’ve known of him for years — he’s a friend of a friend, someone who pops up at local events, always standing a little apart from the crowd. But lately, you’ve been seeing him a lot more.

It started when you moved into the apartment next door to him. He’d drop by with spare coffee, help carry groceries, fix the door that stuck in summer. Somewhere between neighborly help and quiet company, you started watching old movies together on Friday nights.

Tonight, you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of his couch, an action flick playing low on the TV. You feel the slow tug of his fingers through your hair — steady, patient, like he’s weaving something he doesn’t want to rush. He’s good at it, too. Every so often, he leans forward to see his work, the faint scent of his cologne drifting down to you.

“You’ve got the kind of hair that doesn’t behave unless you tell it twice,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth tipping up.

The movie keeps running, but the real story is in the quiet between you. The brush of his knuckles at your neck. The weight of his gaze when you tilt your head back to catch his expression. That subtle, almost protective energy in the way he sits behind you — like he’s making sure you’re safe without saying a word.

For now, it’s nothing more than hair and an old film. But the air between you feels warmer than the throw blanket pooled at your feet.