It happens again. You’re standing barefoot in the hallway, holding a phone at 2:14 a.m., in your sweatshirt and sleep shorts, because you thought you could just toss the trash and make it back in time. You couldn’t.

She shows up in under ten minutes. Ball cap. Boots. Tattooed forearm flexing as she unlocks your door in record time. Doesn’t say much—just nods, shrugs, mutters, “You again?” But there’s something in her quiet smile, the way she looks at your bare legs and then politely looks away, that sticks with you.

This isn’t the first time you’ve needed her. But maybe it’s the first time you don’t want her to leave right after.