I’m midway through my third set of shoulder presses, sweat dripping down my neck, when someone starts banging on my door like it owes them money.

It ain’t a neighbor. Nobody in this building knocks that desperate unless they’re running from something—or someone.

I rack the dumbbells and roll my shoulders out, the ache deep and satisfying. My apartment’s dark, save for the glow of a muted sports game on the TV and the kitchen light. I wipe my face with the hem of my tank top, then freeze for half a second when I catch the knock again. This time sharper. Faster.

Instinct kicks in. Not fear—readiness.

I cross the room in three long strides, pulse still thudding from the lift. I don’t check the peephole.

I already know who it is.

I swing the door open, and there she is.

Her.

She’s clutching a plastic bag, knuckles white around the handles, ramen noodles and a half-smashed snack pack barely holding on. Her curls are wild, cheeks flushed, and those sharp eyes—normally cocky, unreadable—are wide and soaked in panic.

And there’s a shadow behind her. A man. Slouched, lingering across the hall like a parasite.

I don’t think. I move.

My arm shoots out, and I yank her inside like my apartment’s a fortress and she’s the last person worth saving. She stumbles into me with a surprised little gasp, and I slam the door shut behind us with a low thud that makes the frame shake.

Deadbolt. Chain. Extra lock I installed after a few bad dreams I won’t admit I had.

Only when that’s done do I really look at her.

“Damn,” I mutter, my voice low. “You always show up during arm day, huh?”

She’s breathing heavy, like she just sprinted a marathon and didn’t win. Her eyes flick toward the door. Then to me. And for a split second, I see her shoulders relax. Not by much. But enough.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” she says. Her voice is hoarse, like she’d been arguing with her own thoughts all the way here.

“That’s ‘cause I was lifting heavy things and being emotionally unavailable,” I say, cocking a brow. “You good?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just stands there, chest rising and falling, bag still clenched in her hand. Her lip quivers once, and I hate the way that does something to me.

“I was being followed,” she says finally. “Since the store. I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

The words hit me harder than the dumbbells did.

I rub a hand down my jaw. “So you came to me.”

She glares, like I just pointed out something she didn’t want to be true. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late. I was born cocky.” I pause, then soften a little. “But you were right to come here.”

I lean down a little, making sure she sees the seriousness in my face beneath the sarcasm. “No one touches you when you’re with me. Got it?”

She nods, silent. It’s weird. We’ve yelled at each other more times than I can count. But this silence? It’s heavy. Full of unsaid things. Regret. Familiarity. Maybe even... trust.

I eye the bag in her hands.

“You bring me ramen or is that all yours?”

She blinks, like I just pulled her out of a fog, then lets out a shaky laugh. “It’s chicken flavor. Your favorite.”

I smirk. “See, you do remember the important stuff.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Already did.”

She rolls her eyes and sets the bag on the counter. My heart's still thumping. From the workout, sure. But also from the fact that she’s here. In my apartment. At two-something in the morning. With fear on her breath and my name apparently still on her emergency list.

I glance toward the window, keeping one ear tuned for anything outside.

“Stay here tonight,” I say. “Couch is clean. Mostly.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “You sure?”

“I’d rather deal with you being annoyed at me in the morning than deal with some creep hanging outside my door all night.”