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Movement inside stops, then there’s a long pause, then footsteps approaching slowly.

The peephole goes dark—she's checking who it is.

Another long pause. I can practically feel her debating whether to answer.

"Everly," I say, keeping my voice low. "It's Regnor. From the club."

Like she doesn't know who I am.

Like I haven't been watching her for years, keeping my distance like a good soldier, respecting boundaries I never wanted to acknowledge.

The deadbolt turns, then another lock, and then a chain slides back.

Girl's got good security habits at least.

The door opens a crack, and there she is.

She's changed clothes—soft pants and an oversized sweatshirt that probably hides more damage.

Her face is freshly washed, but I can see the puffiness around her eyes, the careful way she's holding herself.

"Regnor?" Her voice is hoarse, like she's been crying. "What are you doing here?"

Good fucking question. "Wanted to check on you. After Thanksgiving, I... I was worried."

Something flickers in her eyes, maybe she’s surprised.

When's the last time someone checked on her just because they gave a damn?

"I'm fine," she says automatically.

"Bullshit." The word comes out harsher than intended. "You look like hell."

A broken laugh escapes her. "Thanks. Real charming."

"Can I come in?"

She hesitates, and I see the war on her face.

The smart thing would be to send me away.

But something—loneliness, pain, or maybe just exhaustion—wins out.

"Yeah," she says softly, stepping back. "Okay."

Her apartment is small but clean, organized.

Nothing like the cold perfection of Dylan's place.

This looks lived-in.

Comfortable.

There's a blanket thrown over the couch, books stacked on the coffee table, pictures on the walls.

It looks like her.

"Want some coffee?" she asks, hovering uncertainly.