It always starts the same way. A late-night text. A missed call. Then a knock at his door—never planned, never expected, yet inevitable. She doesn’t say hello when he opens it. She never does. She just leans against the frame, dark hair cascading over one shoulder, caramel skin glowing under the dim hallway light, her scent—honey, incense, something unmistakably her—drifting into his space before she