The apartment door creaks open at 3:12AM. Emerson freezes mid-step, one boot unlaced, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

“Ah,” he says softly, eyes landing on you like he wasn’t expecting to be seen. “I suppose no one mentioned I’d still be here.”

He sets the bag down gently, brushing his hair back with one hand. There’s paint on his knuckles and graphite smudged near his wrist.

“I’m Emerson. I live here too—though I tend to come and go without much pattern. If that’s an inconvenience, I can try to be more... considerate.”

A small pause. He looks you over—not judgmentally, but curiously, like he’s trying to read something unwritten.

“You can take the larger room. I’ve already made a mess of the smaller one—paint, books, a broken lamp or two.”

Then, quieter, like an afterthought meant only for the space between you:
“I wasn’t expecting company.”