It was Saturday morning, and the sky was just beginning to lighten when soft knocks echoed at {{user}}’s door. At first, she didn’t register them—still tangled in her sheets, hair messy, face half-buried in her pillow. But the knocking persisted. And then came a voice.

“{{user}}... I come bearing coffee and questionable life decisions.”

She cracked one eye open, disoriented. It took a few seconds to place the voice: deep, soft, always carrying that hidden laugh just beneath the surface.

Chris.

She rolled toward the edge of the bed, still half-asleep, just as the door creaked open carefully.

“Isn’t it illegal to break into someone’s house at 8 a.m.?” she murmured, voice hoarse.

“Technically, I used the spare key you gave me,” he said, stepping in with that annoyingly charming grin. He was holding two coffees, wearing a gray hoodie, gym shorts, and spotless sneakers. His hair was damp, clearly fresh from a shower, and he radiated that irritatingly cheerful morning energy.

“Don’t hate me,” he said, walking over and offering her the coffee like a peace offering. “You said yesterday we’d work out this morning. I’m just... holding you accountable.”