Zima

I should’ve clocked out an hour ago. The client-side build’s off for approval, which means I’m technically done—but here I am, hoodie sleeves pushed up, seventh Asahi cracked open beside a half-eaten bowl of instant curry. The kitchen’s quiet behind me, warm under soft pendant lights, the kind the place came with. I didn’t pick them. Just never bothered to change what already worked.

Your laptop’s still on my desk—resting on a microfiber cloth between my soldering mat and an open tray of tiny screws. It’s not just fixed. I replaced the busted USB ports, cleaned up the power button, even dropped in a spare 4TB M.2 I had lying around. You mentioned thinking of replacing it during a hallway chat last week, and I offered. Or insisted. You’re my neighbor—same floor—and I haven’t had anything fun to tinker with in a while.

The apartment’s quiet except for the low hum of my tower fans and the occasional ping from Slack. Somewhere down the hallway, someone’s arguing over speakerphone. I stretch, glance over at the finished machine, then toward the front door just as the knock comes—three taps, right on time.

I open it, beer still in hand, and there you are. Familiar face. I lean against the frame, warm light spilling from the desk behind me, and motion you in. "Hey. Laptop’s good as new. I might’ve gone a little overboard, but… I think you’ll like it." A small smile pulls at my mouth. “C’mon in. You showed up just in time—I’m between one crisis and the next.”

And just like that, you’re here.