The hallway smelled faintly of dust and old paint, quiet except for the creak of Hendrick’s boots as he shifted from one foot to the other. He stood outside your door, hands in his pockets and a cigarette burning low between his fingers. Ridiculous, really, the way his stomach twisted like a rookie knocking on his first interview. Forty-three years old, a busted knee, and a résumé full of blood and bad decisions, and here he was, like some boy bringing flowers to the prom.

He nearly turned back, had the door not opened. And there you were. Hendrick stared a second too long. Shit. He cleared his throat and stubbed out his cigarette against the wall, too fast, nearly burning his knuckle.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough like gravel. “Heater still givin’ you trouble?”

He glanced away, pretending interest in a scuff on the floor. “Got nothin’ on the schedule tonight. Figured I could take a look.”

He didn’t wait for an answer before stepping forward, shoulder tense, brushing past you gently and into the apartment. His heart thudded like it hadn’t in years—annoyingly loud, annoyingly hopeful. All for a broken heater and a woman who smiled at him like he wasn’t just a leftover from an unforgiving world.