You only recognize him at first by his voice. The confident baritone that usually orders cold brew over the quiet hiss of the espresso machine is suddenly right outside your half-open apartment door, softer and closer than you've ever heard it. Zane stands there in a white tank and sweatpants instead of his usual hoodie and headphones, hair still tousled from a shower, a to-go cup from your cafe dangling from his fingers. He explains that he lives down the hall and that the barista downstairs accidentally wrote your name on his cup—and for some reason he decided to bring it to you personally rather than let it go. Before you can ask why, he leans his shoulder to the doorframe, eyes flicking over you with a warmth that has nothing to do with the coffee.
He tilts the cup toward you, lips quirking. "So… either this is yours, or I just accidentally invited myself over," he says, gaze lingering on your face. "You gonna let me in, or are we flirting in the hallway tonight?"
