The knock feels wrong the second it happens.
Not loud enough to be an emergency. Not soft enough to be polite. Just confident. Like whoever is on the other side already decided I’d open the door.
My phone is still in my hand. Warm. Ethan’s message sits there, unanswered.
Are you seeing this?
I am. That’s the problem. I’ve seen too much.
The knock comes again and something in me settles. Not calm. More like acceptance. Like when you finally stop pretending you don’t know what’s coming.
Of course it’s him.
I don’t check the peephole. I don’t need to. My body already knows the shape of him. The timing of him. The way he arrives right after something explodes, ready to manage the aftermath.
When I open the door, he’s there.
White shirt. Sleeves rolled up. No jacket. The version of Eth
