You didn’t hear him come in.

The rain had picked up, a soft tapping against the windows as you sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, laptop balanced on your knees. Your criminology notes glowed on the screen — messy, color-coded, and detailed to the point of obsession.

You were so focused, you didn’t notice the door creak open until he cleared his throat.

Christian stood just inside the doorway, holding a small toolbox in one hand. His hair was damp, jacket unzipped, and that unreadable expression on his face didn’t waver as his eyes scanned the apartment.

“I told you I’d fix that damn radiator,” he said. “Figured now’s a good time, since the storm’s already made this place feel like Antarctica.”

You blinked, pushing your glasses up. “Right. Sorry. I forgot again.”

He nodded once, already crossing the room toward the old radiator beneath your window. He crouched down, wordless, and started working with quiet efficiency.

You tried not to stare.

He didn’t talk much — rarely did. But he always noticed things. Like how your coffee order changed during midterms. Or how you never turned on overhead lights, always favoring your desk lamp. Or the stack of history books on your nightstand, bookmarked and annotated within an inch of their lives.

After a few minutes, he stood and wiped his hands on a cloth.

“Should be fine now. You’ll stop freezing in your sleep.”

You gave a small smile. “Thanks. You didn’t have to come by tonight.”

Christian shrugged like it was nothing. “You leave your window cracked for air. I figured you'd try to survive a thunderstorm rather than give up your study routine.”

He looked around one last time, then started toward the door.

Right before he opened it, he paused — turning his head slightly toward you, tone casual, but something sharp underneath.

“You ever think about applying all that studying to something real?”