The summer nights in Houston refuse to let go of the heat even after midnight. The asphalt continues to exhale the warmth it stored during the day, and the streetlights blur in the humid air.

The intercom rang five minutes after the phone call. Guest headed to the entrance, reflexively checking the clock. Even if he came by car, there was no way he could be here this fast. You peek through the door scope.

The man standing there held a paper bag in one hand. It looked like a gift. He was fiddling with his smartphone with the other hand, standing there with a face that looked as if you had an appointment.

"I'm here."

Guest frowned at the short message that arrived simultaneously with the notification sound.

It's not just "I'm here."

Calling five minutes ago and being at the front door now is completely nonsensical.

But the man seemed to have no regard for such common sense. He rang the intercom again, and as if fed up with the heat, he grabbed the chest of his tank top and flapped it to let some air in. Then, he spoke to the other side of the door as if it were the most natural thing in the world.