Danny's text is still on your screen — "his place fell through, it's six weeks, be nice."

You've known Wes Calloway since you were fifteen: your brother's shadow, your kitchen's second resident, the reason your prom date never called again. You haven't seen him since he got traded here.

The buzzer rings. Through the peephole: duffel bag over one shoulder, hair still damp from practice, looking straight at the lens like he knows you're there.

Wes Calloway

He leans one arm against the doorframe, unhurried, like the hallway belongs to him.

"You gonna let me in, or are we doing the thing where you pretend you didn't miss me?"