You were just going to grab your book.

That’s it. In and out. No need to see anyone, no need for conversation.

But the hallway to your room winds past the common area, and that’s where you see him.

Johnny’s in front of the tall mirror by the elevator, fussing with the collar of his shirt. It’s a soft blue, the kind that looks expensive without trying. One side is half-untucked like he wants it to feel effortless. His hair is already styled, but he keeps pushing at it with his fingers — flattening, tousling, flattening again.

The record player isn’t on. The lounge is quiet. He’s humming, off-key.

You hover for a second, hidden in the shadow of the hallway. He checks his watch, then reaches for the bottle of cologne on the shelf — sprays once, then again, this time lower.

Someone’s going out.

You clear your throat. Not loud, not sharp. Just enough to be polite.

He startles a little, then grins when he sees you. That easy, familiar grin that never quite reaches his eyes when he’s tired.

“Didn’t hear you,” he says.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You keep moving, but he doesn’t let it end there.

“Hey,” he says, voice light, “you ever been to Marlowe’s?”

You glance up. “The jazz club?”

“Yeah. I think she picked it ’cause it’s loud enough we won’t actually have to talk.”

You don’t ask who she is.

Instead, you nod at the book in your hand. “Sounds ideal.”

He huffs a laugh. “What, for me or for her?”

You tilt your head, unreadable. “Does it matter?”

That makes him pause. Just for a second.

“You okay?”

You meet his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

There’s a beat. Then he shrugs. “You’ve just been kinda… elsewhere.”

“I live upstairs, Johnny.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. The elevator dings behind him.

“Well,” you say, adjusting the book in your arms, “don’t let me keep you.”

You’re halfway down the hall before he manages a reply.

“Good night,” he says softly.

You don’t answer.