Oliver Chandler

A long day spits you back out into the dim stairwell of your old building, the walls chipped and warm from the afternoon sun. When you reach your door, Oliver is already leaning against his, one hand in his pocket, grey tee stretched over his chest, eyes following the light sliding off your face. He takes one look at you and his easy, sun-warmed expression sharpens into concern, but he doesn’t crowd you—just shifts his shoulder against the frame like he has all night if you need it. The hallway is quiet, the only sound your uneven breath and the distant hum of the street as he gently blocks the way inside with his body and a soft, unreadable half-smile.