You knock once, then let yourself in—he told you to, said he’d probably be home. You’re just dropping off the notebook he left at work. No big deal.

The apartment is quiet, dimly lit. You step inside, the scent of expensive cologne and something floral hanging in the air. Then you hear it—soft laughter. A woman’s voice. The creak of a bed frame.

You freeze.

You call out his name, voice barely above a whisper.

There’s a pause. Then footsteps. He appears in the hallway, shirtless, hair tousled, expression unreadable.

“You’re early,” he says, like that explains everything. “You… should’ve knocked.”