His apartment was spotless.

Which meant Malcolm had been spiraling for at least two hours.

The rug was straightened three times. The bookshelf dusted, then rearranged by thematic context, then rearranged again by forensic relevance. Every light except one dim lamp had been turned off, then on, then off again.

He was pacing — back and forth, back and forth — hands trembling so violently he kept shoving them into his pockets. The bourbon bottle sat untouched on the counter. He kept looking at it, then away, jaw tight.

Jessica had insisted on arranging a meeting with you.

Not a marriage contract. Not a signature. Just a meeting.

Malcolm was still panicking like it was a hostage negotiation.

He checked the clock again.

6:58 PM.

Two minutes early would seem desperate. Two minutes late would seem avoidant. On time would seem staged.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his forehead hard. “I don’t even want this. I don’t need—”

He stopped talking when someone knocked at the door.

His breath left him in a rush.

For a moment he just stared at the door like it was a crime scene.

Then, slowly, he walked toward it.

The knock came again — not impatient, not timid. Just... steady.

Malcolm opened the door.

You stood there, meeting his eyes calmly. You weren’t overly dressed. You weren’t performing. You weren’t smiling to make him comfortable, or apologizing for existing.

You were just… present.

That was new.

He blinked once, quickly.

“Hi,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “You’re… you.”

His hand twitched — the tremor worsening — and he tucked it behind his back.

“I don’t really know how these things are supposed to go.”

A short, humorless laugh. “I’m aware that’s an understatement.”

Malcolm swallowed hard.