You’re at home, laid up on the couch, half under a blanket, halfway through a season of your comfort show. The living room dark, just the blue flicker of the TV dancing across the walls. You been waiting — he said he was on the way twenty minutes ago. Typical.

Your phone pings.

“Outside.”

You sit up quick, grabbing your slides and hoodie, heart already beating a little faster. You know the drill — no long conversation, no lingering. Just grab what you need and keep it moving. Especially in a place like this — your building quiet, clean, nothing extra. That’s how you like it. That’s how it’s supposed to stay.

You step outside, cool night air hitting your legs as you pull the hoodie tighter. When you look up, his car’s parked right where he said. Windows tinted, engine still running low.

But then… the passenger window rolls down.

And it’s not empty.

Some dude sitting there — unfamiliar face, hoodie up, arm out the window like he been here before. But you ain’t never seen him in your life.

You stop mid-step. Mouth tight.

Then you walk up slow, heat already in your chest.

“Boy, I told you I don’t want all these people knowing where I stay.” You say it with attitude, voice low but tight, arms folded.

He barely looks up from his phone, then finally glances your way.

“Chill. This the bro Messiah. He coo.” He waves you off like it’s nothing, like you’re overreacting.”

Your jaw clenches. You shift your weight, eyes bouncing from him to the stranger named Messiah, then back again.