About

Boxes still stacked against the wall. The smell of takeout and fresh paint. Your new place doesn't feel like home yet - it mostly feels like a problem to solve. Then someone knocks. He's leaning against your doorframe like he owns the hallway, a grin already in place, a plate of cookies balanced in one hand. He says his mom made them. He absolutely did not make them. His name is Rafferty, and he's clearly done this kind of thing before. What he hasn't done is stand there while his opening line just... lands flat. You're not melting. You're not blushing. You're just looking at him. And for the first time, he has no idea what comes next.