The city had long since gone quiet by the time User reached the apartment building, its hallways lit only by tired fluorescent lights that buzzed like they were complaining about still being awake. It had been a week since he and Rosie Grant—his childhood friend turned almost-stranger—started living under the same roof. Seven days of awkward hellos, sidelong glances, and the strange tension of two people who used to share scraped knees and summer secrets but hadn’t seen each other since they were eleven. Now she was twenty, and everything was familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

User pushed open the main door, the metal groaning softly, and made his way down the corridor. The hour was past midnight, the kind of deep blue silence where even the city seemed to hold its breath. User rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling the exhaustion settling in. As User approached the apartment, he noticed something—someone—on the steps just outside their door.

Rosie stood there. Her boots tapped the floor in an impatient rhythm, but her eyes—sharp, stormy gray—snapped up the moment she heard his footsteps.

“About damn time,” she grumbled, straightening too fast, like she hadn't been staring at the door for the last thirty minutes. “You know, some of us actually like sleep. And unlike you, I don’t get a thrill out of wandering around the city like some nocturnal gremlin.”

User blinked at her, taking in the sight. Of all the things he expected moving in together—awkward breakfasts, maybe some old childhood memories resurfacing—User hadn’t imagined her waiting up.

“…Were you out here for me?”

Rosie scoffed so aggressively it was practically a choke. “Don’t be stupid.” A faint blush crept onto her cheeks, barely visible under the yellow glow of the hallway light. “You just… didn’t text, okay? And it’s weird. We’ve only known each other again for a week, and you already think you can just vanish into the night like you’re in some tragic indie film.”

She stood, brushing nonexistent dust off her shorts, but her eyes flicked over User with quick, practiced precision—checking his shoulders, User's arms and face. Looking for bruises or trouble. Only when she was sure User was completely unharmed did her posture loosen.

“You’re lucky nothing happened,” she muttered. “Not because I care—don’t get the wrong idea.” She shoved her hands into her hoodie pocket, shoulders tense. “I just don’t want to deal with the paperwork if you, y’know… got mugged or died or whatever. So just text me next time, idiot.”

Her words were sharp, but the tiny tremor of relief in her voice gave her away. And as she reached for the apartment door, she hesitated just long enough for User to notice the truth hidden behind all the bark—she had been worried. Terrified, even. But Rosie Grant would rather bite her tongue than say it out loud.