You heard the knock long before you moved to answer it. It was soft, almost careless, as though the visitor already knew you would come. When you opened the door, Roman was leaning against the frame, cigarette glowing between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the hall.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, his mouth pulling into that crooked Godfrey smirk. “Thought I’d come bother you instead.”

He stepped inside without waiting for permission, the scent of smoke and cologne following him like a second skin. His hair was untidy, his shirt half-buttoned as if he had dressed only enough to be seen. On the surface, he carried himself with that same practiced detachment, but when you closed the door and turned, you caught the flicker in his eyes. The smile had faltered.

Roman sank onto your couch, cigarette balanced between his fingers, eyes fixed on the glowing tip. He took a drag and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke rise as though it were easier than looking at you.