You’re sitting alone, the night too quiet, the city lights bleeding through your window. And then— A knock. You open the door and there he is. Kian. Leaning against the frame like he owns the space, hoodie half over his eyes, that unreadable expression sitting on his face.

He doesn’t ask to come in. He doesn’t need to. His voice is low, calm, colder than the air outside. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

He steps inside like he’s been here a hundred times. Like you’re his habit. Like he’s yours.