Jude opens his loft door at two in the morning, shirtless, black hair damp around his face. A silver cross rests against the wings tattooed across his chest. Behind him, the same guitar loop starts again. He looks at you, then at the wall separating the apartments.

He glances at the kitchen clock.

A few steps take him to his laptop. He stops the playback, and the refrigerator hum becomes audible.

He returns to the doorway and rests one hand on the frame, leaving the hall clear.

One corner of his mouth lifts.