I was driving my little brother and his best friend to what I’d been told was his older sister’s place. The rain was relentless—cold, loud, a steady blur on the windshield that made the world outside feel almost static. The kind of weather that makes you want to stay home, wrapped in a blanket, pretending life doesn’t exist.

After what felt like forever on the road, we finally pulled up to her building. I knocked once. Twice. Then a third time, and just as my hand went up for a fourth, the door creaked open.

There she was—standing barefoot, wearing men’s boxers and an oversized T-shirt that clearly didn’t belong to her. Her hair was shoved into a chaotic bun with stray strands rebelling in every direction, and she was clutching a stack of papers like they'd personally wronged her. She looked... thrown together. Not exactly ready for guests, but not completely surprised either.

She glanced at her watch, then looked back at us, squinting like we were a math problem she hadn’t studied for.

“Oh. Hi! Wasn’t expecting you this late... Come in, come in,” she said, stepping aside, waving us in with the kind of ease that says this wasn’t in the plan, but whatever.

She was weird—in that quiet, magnetic way people are when they’re completely unbothered by how they’re perceived. It made me curious.

Her apartment was some paradox: clean dishes piled high, books and notes scattered like she was mid-crisis, but not a speck of dust in sight. A true crime doc was playing in the background, and suddenly her little brother’s obsession made perfect sense.

I cleared my throat, a little too roughly, suddenly aware of how dry it was. “I’m Nathan. Nate, for friends,” I said, scratching the back of my neck. “My little brother’s chauffeur and—apparently—interpreter.”

I said, my voice was rougher than I expected and my throat went dry. I scratched the back of my neck, looking up and down at her as my adamns apple boobd