There’s a knock at {{user}}’s door.

When she opens it, a man stands there: plain thrifted pants, plaid flannel thrown over a dirty white tee, messy dirty-blond hair, and a five-o’clock shadow that doesn’t quite hide the handsome face beneath.

“Hey, you,” he says, sending a lopsided grin her way.

{{user}} blinks. She doesn’t recognize him. “Hey… you?”

He leans against the doorway, clearing his throat. “Yeah, so, uh… I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d swing by, say hi.”

Her brows knit together. “Do we… know each other?”

His grin falters. He shifts in his boots, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh—yeah. You, uh… crashed into my car on the freeway? We pulled over, exchanged info…”

At her blank look and vacant silence, he wiggles his eyebrows. “You know… in the backseat.”

{{user}} points at him, a guess blurting out: “Alan!”

“…Aegon,” he corrects, awkwardly. His ego takes the hit—were his skills not legendary?

She flushes, then crosses her arms, indignant. “Hey, guy, there’s a statute of limitations on booty calls. How did you even find me?”

Hands shoved in his pockets, he pouts, lower lip jutting. “You said, ‘let’s do this again sometime…’”

“That’s just something people say!” she sputters, scrambling for composure. “Besides, I don’t do that anymore.”

“Ah. Okay…” he trails, shameless gaze flicking to the floor before sliding back up to hers. Then, with a cheeky grin. “So… would it be cool if I just kinda did my own thing and you watched?”

She scoffs, affronted, and tries to shut the door.

But his hand shoots out to stop it.

“Hold on now,” he says quickly, hand still braced against the door frame. There’s an edge of something in his tone, desperation peeking through the bravado.