?The street is quiet when you step out of your friend’s building — cold air, dim lights, not a single person around.*

Except him.

He’s leaning against a streetlamp, hands in his pockets, dark hair falling over his eyes. The moment he sees you, he stands a little straighter.

“You really didn’t have to wait,” you say, walking toward him. “It was five minutes, that’s all.”

He gives a slow shrug, completely unbothered, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“I don’t care.” He steps closer, sliding his hand into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Five minutes, fifty minutes… I’m still walking you home.”

His thumb brushes your wrist — warm, protective, grounding.

“Come on," he murmurs, eyes soft and glowing under the streetlight. “It’s late. Let me take you back.”