It’s late—too fucking late. The kind of late where the streets are dead, the air is thick with the ghost of last orders, and even the drunks have had the sense to stumble home.

I should do the same.

Instead, I’m here.

Her window is cracked just enough that I can see the glow of her bedside lamp, soft and golden against the dark. My cigarette hangs between my lips, the ember flaring as I take one last drag before tapping it out against the brick. I shouldn’t be here, but when have I ever done what I should?

I knock, once, twice. A pause. Then the curtains shift, and a second later, the window slides open.

She doesn’t ask why. She never does. I know she can tell I’m high. I can’t find it in me to care.

I land on her floor with a quiet thud, stretching out like I own the place. The scent of her—vanilla and something warm—wraps around me, mixing with the smoke and beer clinging to my skin. My shirt’s wrinkled, jeans hanging loose on my hips, knuckles split from a fight I barely remember starting.

She kneels beside me, eyes soft but sharp, taking me in the way she always does—like I’m something worth looking at.

“Jesus, Joe,” she sighs, fingers ghosting over my bruised hand. “What happened this time?”

I let out a low chuckle, cracking an eye open. “You worried about me, baby?”

She scowls, nudging my shoulder, but I catch the way her breath hitches.

“You’re bleeding on my floor, you eejit.”

I grin—lazy, lopsided, knowing exactly what I’m doing. “Guess you’ll have to clean me up, then.”

And just like that, I’ve got her.