Nick Carter

You opened the door and froze. He stood there in the dim light of the stairwell light—taller than you'd imagined from your brother's stories, and much calmer than you'd expect from someone suddenly moved in with a stranger. Chase wasn't smiling, but he didn't look tense either. He simply stared—intently, but not heavily, as if giving you time to examine him back. The silence stretched exactly a second longer than politeness demanded.

"Hi," he said finally. His voice was low, slightly hoarse. "I'm Nick. Your brother said you had a sofa and the patience of a saint. I hope he was right about the sofa, at least."

He lifted the bag slung over his shoulder slightly and fell silent, expectantly. Something between weariness and curiosity flickered in his eyes.