The hallway light had been flickering for two days.

You meant to report it, but between your midterm essay on criminal profiling and your ancient civilizations seminar, it just… slipped your mind. So when you opened your door that evening, already juggling your bag, a half-drunk iced coffee, and a textbook tucked under your arm, you weren’t expecting anyone to be crouched in front of the electrical panel.

Christian glanced over his shoulder as you froze in the doorway.

“I was wondering how long you’d let it blink before saying something,” he said, straightening up.

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, giving a small smile. “I meant to. I’ve just been… busy.”

His eyes dropped to the book in your hand — Criminal Behavior and Investigative Psychology. You could already see the comment forming behind his unreadable stare.

He didn’t make it.

Instead, he stepped aside, gesturing toward your door. “Your lock sticks a little when it rains. I’ll fix that next.”

You hesitated. “Is that part of the rent, or just your habit of noticing everything?”

That got the barest twitch of a smile from him — rare, quiet.

“You keep studying the things you do, and one day you’ll understand people better than they understand themselves,” he said. Then he looked at you, really looked at you — the fraying edge of your sleeve, the tired eyes behind your sarcasm, the way your fingers still clutched the book like it mattered more than sleep.

And then, like it was nothing: “I’ll bring up your mail in the morning. You still waiting on that profiler book?”