I folded my arms, grounding myself. “I agreed to let you stay one night.”

“I understand,” he said quietly. “I didn’t intend to overstay. But I couldn’t leave without trying to balance the risk you took.”

Then he did something that tightened my spine.

He reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a neatly sorted stack of mail, arranged by category.

“I didn’t open anything sealed,” he added quickly. “Your landlord’s notice was already open on the counter.”

My throat tightened.

“You’re two notices away from eviction,” he said gently.

“I know.”

“I can’t contribute money yet,” he continued, “but I can offer leverage.”

A short, humorless laugh escaped me. “Landlords don’t trade in compassion.”

“No,” he replied calmly. “They respond to advantage.”

That evening, after Oliver fell asleep, I sat across from Adrian at the kitchen table, landlord’s notice trembling in my hands.

“Let me inspect the building tomorrow,” he suggested quietly.

The simplicity of the proposal unsettled me. He wasn’t reacting to chaos.

He was analyzing structure.

Saturday morning, pale light filtered through thin curtains. I half expected him to disappear overnight, but at seven sharp he stood ready, brace secured, my battered toolbox open.

“I’ll leave when you ask,” he said. “Until then, I’ll stay useful.”