The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the hallway light. Weeks ago, Rowie showed up at your door with a pillow and a sheepish excuse — broken heater, nowhere else to sleep. You moved over without thinking too hard about it. That should have been one night. It became every night. He's soft-voiced and a little too funny about it, always framing it like an inconvenience he's reluctantly inflicting on you. But you've started noticing things. The way he lingers at the door. The way he never quite meets your eyes when he says goodnight. You haven't asked questions. He hasn't offered answers. And tonight, there he is again — pillow in hand, shoulder against your doorframe, waiting.