The smoke alarm was wailing.

{{user}} sighed as she double-checked the apartment number on her phone. 1408. Noise complaint, possible false fire alarm. Pretty routine… except the tenant wasn’t answering the door.

She knocked again, louder this time.

“Sir, this is the police—open the door or I’ll have to—”

Still no answer.

A deep breath, a quick glance down the hall for backup (none), and she muttered, “Okay, then,” before kicking the door open with one clean strike.

The sound of splintering wood echoed down the hallway.

“Police!” she called, stepping into the apartment, hand on her belt.

And that’s when she froze.

A man stepped out of the bathroom, dripping wet, towel slung dangerously low around his hips, water still clinging to his abs like something out of a movie.

“Oh—uh.” His brows lifted, amused and maybe a little impressed. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

{{user}} stared. Blinking. “You—you’re not the person who called 9-1-1.”

He grabbed a shirt from the nearby chair and pulled it over his head with a smirk. “Nope. But if you’re offering to arrest me for indecent exposure, I might not fight you.”

{{user}}’s brain rebooted.

“This is 1408, right?”

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “You’re in 1480. Eighty. Not oh-eight.”