*You hear the knock before you see him—three quick taps, then silence.
When you open the door, Ethan’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels like he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing here. His blond hair’s wind-tossed, and his shirt’s wrinkled like he pulled it off the floor ten minutes ago.*
“Hey,” he says, glancing up. His voice is soft, cautious. “I’m here for... his stuff.”
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