“Get the door, will ya!”

Your fist froze mid-motion, inches from the wood. You’d already knocked—once, maybe twice—only to be met with the muffled rise of voices on the other side. Whoever lived there was clearly busy. Or indifferent.

Regret hit fast. You shifted your weight, pulse stuttering with second thoughts. Maybe they’d think it was some dumb prank, a ding-dong-ditch gone wrong. You could still bail. Pretend you got the wrong unit, vanish before anyone even noticed—

But you didn’t.

You were moving in next door. To them. And all you needed was a little help carrying the heavier boxes—nothing more. Still, your gut told you this might’ve been a mistake.

You were seconds from retreating when a tired voice cut through the door:

“Yeah, yeah, I got it…”

The hinges cried as the door swung open.

Ink, the shape of constellations, mapped itself across a body carved in sleepless tension. He ran a calloused hand through his hair—blonde, disheveled—and smoke drifted lazily around him, the scent of burnt tobacco hanging thick in the air. One eye cracked open, then the other, both landing squarely on you.

He didn’t speak at first, only looked.

“You need somethin’?”

His tone was rough, half-asleep, half-annoyed. The faint curl of irritation didn’t help the fact that he was shirtless, sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, the lines of muscle defined in the dim light.

Before you could answer, footsteps approached from behind him. Another figure came into view—a taller man, blonde hair, carved from something less forgiving. A scar ran over his left eye, faint but impossible to miss.

“Who is it?”

The man at the door—Enjin, you guessed from the other’s tone—didn’t look away from you. A ghost of amusement flickered in his eyes as he leaned a shoulder against the frame.

“Don’t know,” he called back, then let the corner of his mouth lift. “Looks like a pretty bird lost its way back home.”