Chapter Text
You open the door. The heat presses in on you like a weight. You hear a knock. A figure stands just outside your threshold. Wrapped—damn near bundled—in a thick brown coat, scarf, green sweater, beige trousers. His skin is pale. His eyes are black, slit-like. You feel something pull in your gut as you look him in the doorway.
“H-hello,” he greets, his voice trembling, and his body shaking.
“The heat doesn’t b-bother me. I’m just looking for a quiet place to rest.”
You glance behind you at the living room—windows closed, fan humming—and then back at him. He stands still, clutching his coat close, as if freezing despite the oppressive warmth of the night. You note the shiver in his shoulders.
“Come in,” you say, opening the door and stepping to the side, though with caution.
His relief is subtle, but there. “Th-thank you.” He steps inside and looks up, his breath stutters a bit as he does. “Ceiling’s a b-bit low. But it’s fine.”
You guide him in, and offer a seat on the sofa. He seems to comply, though his eyes wander the room. Sizing up the ceiling, maybe? No. It's something else. You sense he’s not really comfortable. You offer him a glass of water. He declines with a simple, “I-I’m okay.”
Silence settles. You try to make small talk after a while.
“So… how long have you been looking for a place like this?”
He hesitates with his answer. “…Never once found p-peace. So… a long t-time.”
You feel the weight behind his words. The look in his eyes. Maybe he's just someone tired of searching.
You notice his coat. Any normal person would find it too warm for this heat.
“The heat doesn’t bother you?” you ask, trying to remain polite.
His answer is almost a whisper. “I’m always c-c-cold. Others b-b-burn in the sun. I wrap myself in layers and still feel on the verge of fr-freezing.”
You swallow harshly. You don’t know what to say. You realize you’re curious — why? Why is he cold? It's burning out there.
But you don’t press him. You just sit. He watches you. Tense. Quiet.
You glimpse a moment where his hand tightens on the sofa’s armrest. He exhales, like a sigh you can almost hear.
“Thank you for letting me in,” he says.
And you nod, though your heart is uneasy.
As the night deepens outside, you walk past the living-room door and hear it: a faint, miserable shivering sound. You pause. Your throat goes dry.
You think of upstairs, or rather of the window you just shut.
You can’t shake the feeling: you’ve let someone in who doesn’t belong—or at least someone who doesn’t fit. Not because they’re malicious, but because they’re broken. Disturbed. Cold inside and out. And maybe… dangerous? Anyone's dangerous at this point.
You walk to your room, the weight of the moment lingering.
He sits in the living room, coat still on, scarf wound tight. You didn’t ask for his name. He didn’t offer it. He said it doesn’t matter anymore.
And you’re left wondering: will you regret this?