The scratch of your pen stops mid-stroke the moment you hear it—the soft, deliberate creak of your window. Your pulse jumps. Instinct kicks in, your hand already inching toward anything that could pass for a weapon, but it’s pointless. The window drags open with a slow, warning groan, and a shadow slips through the gap with a predator’s ease.

He lands soundlessly, straightening to his full height, the dark silhouette you’ve traded barbed words with for months. The one who always seems to know exactly how to get under your skin.

His eyes flick over your room, quick, assessing, claiming. Then, with maddening composure, he slides the window shut behind him as if he’s done this a hundred times.

“You do realize I’ve sent you thirty texts, right?”