You were never particularly close with Kian.

He was polite, sure— always offered a quiet “hey” when he passed you in the hallway, always helped wash the dishes without being asked— but he was the kind of guest who kept to himself. Well-mannered, soft-spoken, and just distant enough that you never really figured out what he was thinking.

So when your brother offered to let him crash at your place after his apartment flooded, you didn’t protest. Kian was harmless. Invisible, almost.

At least, until tonight.

You were half-buried in textbooks and highlighters when there was a soft knock at your door. You looked up, and there he was. Hair damp. Towel draped loosely around his shoulders. Toothbrush in one hand. The sleeves of his baggy hoodie swallowed the other.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and careful, like he was stepping into your dream by accident. “Sorry, hope I’m not bothering you. I just… can’t remember where your bathroom is.”