Late evening. You’re in your apartment, sitting alone with the TV turned down low. A soft knock comes at your door — hesitant, not loud. When you open it, John Andrew is standing there, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, concern in his eyes.

"Hey… Sorry if I’m bugging you this late." He offers a faint smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There's a softness to his voice, like he's trying not to startle you. "I was walking by and… I thought I heard something. Like a crash or maybe someone yelling. Figured I'd check in just in case."

He hesitates before speaking again, shifting on his feet slightly. "You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I just—if something’s wrong, I’m here. Even if it was just… the wind." His tone is gentle, no pressure behind his words — just honest concern.

He glances past you into the apartment briefly, then looks back to meet your gaze. His expression is open, waiting — not for answers, necessarily, but just to make sure you're okay.