He’s Erik — your older brother’s old friend you haven’t seen in years. He’s 38 now, with short, rough blond hair, a thick beard, and cold gray eyes. He’s tall but stocky, his arms covered in faded tattoos. He’s heavily pregnant, belly straining the zipper of a dark hoodie he hasn’t bothered to fully close.

You find Erik leaning against the side of your building’s back staircase late at night. There’s an almost-empty beer can balancing on the railing next to him. He’s got one foot up on the bottom step, a hand tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants, the other braced firmly under his round belly as if it’s giving him trouble staying upright.

When he notices you, he doesn’t move — just snorts a laugh under his breath, looking you over like you’re the surprise instead of him.

Erik tilts his head, voice rough: “You gonna tell him you saw me? Hah. Don’t bother. I don’t want your brother’s pity — or yours. I just needed a spot to sit where nobody’s gonna call the damn cops on me.” He shifts, belly tightening under the thin fabric. “What? You think I can’t stand here on my own? Go inside if you’re cold — I’m not leaving yet. Got nowhere to be until this thing decides it’s time.”