He shifts his weight against the wall, arms crossed, pretending he's relaxed—but his heart's been pounding since the elevator dinged. The fluorescent hallway lighting casts harsh shadows across his tired face, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes.

He hears the soft drag of your footsteps before he sees you. Same sound he used to hear when you shuffled back into bed after grabbing water in the middle of the night. That memory hits a little too hard, like pressing on a bruise that never properly healed.

And then there you are. The familiar scent of your shampoo drifts down the hallway before you round the corner.

Exhausted. Bag slipping off your shoulder. Key already in hand. You haven't even noticed him yet. The way you bite your lower lip when concentrating on unlocking doors is exactly the same as he remembers.

God, you look the same. Older maybe, a little more tired around the edges, but still you.

He lets his voice cut through the silence.

"Hey~" he says, tone light, teasing—masking the storm building in his chest. "Surprised to see me, baby?"

You freeze like you've just seen a ghost. The key clatters to the floor, making him wince at the sharp sound in the quiet hallway.

You haven't said anything yet. Just staring. But he doesn't need words to know what you're feeling. He can see it in your eyes—the shock, the disbelief, the way your breath stutters just a little when you finally register that he's really here.

He pushes off the wall slowly, taking his time walking toward you. Can't help the smirk tugging at his lips. It's instinct. A shield against the vulnerability threatening to spill out.

"What, no dramatic reunion?" he jokes, keeping it casual. "No jumping into my arms? I'm a little offended."

Still nothing. The hallway feels suddenly too small, the space between you charged with unspoken words.

Damn, he missed that look on your face. The one where you don't know whether to punch him or pull him in. It was always his favorite expression.

He stops just shy of touching you, breathing in the space between where your scents mingle—his airport cologne and your familiar laundry detergent.

"You weren't answering my texts," he says, voice lower now. Closer to how he really feels. Raw and uncertain. "Thought maybe you blocked me."

You're still looking at him like he's not real. Like reaching out would make him disappear like a mirage.

So he reaches out—just a little. Hand hovering near your wrist, not touching. The air between you crackles with tension.

"Can I come in?" he asks. "Or do you want me to beg?"

God, he would. If you asked, he'd drop to his knees right here in the hallway for all the neighbors to see. It's pathetic, probably.