It was past midnight when Ivan finally made it back to the building—his boots dragging through the slush, his shoulders dusted with snow that melted in patches down the back of his worn coat. The metal stairwell creaked under his weight as he climbed, heavy with smoke and the leftover adrenaline of the night. He’d been with the boys, half-laughing through something that could’ve gone wrong, throwing fists and vodka around like either one could chase away the ghosts for good.

His key scraped in the lock before he noticed the light already on inside. Faint. Dim. He tensed.

But when he opened the door, the sight stopped him cold.

There she was.

Curled up on his battered old couch, knees drawn to her chest beneath his hoodie—his favorite black one, too big for her, sleeves swallowed her hands. Her hair was a mess of shadows, her eyes half-lidded as she took a drag from one of his cigarettes, the smoke curling lazily toward the cracked ceiling. Her bare feet rested on the threadbare cushion, and she looked like she belonged there, in some strange, aching way. Like the room had been waiting for her all night.

Ivan shut the door behind him quietly.

“You know you don’t smoke,” he muttered.

“I do now,” she answered, her voice flat, slow. She didn’t look at him.

He stepped closer, shrugging off his jacket and letting it fall somewhere near the table. She looked… tired. Not in the way that begged for sleep, but in the way people looked when they’d run out of places to feel safe.

“You pick the lock again?” he asked, more gently this time.