The one where a certain quarterback grew up. The one you've basically lived in almost as much as your own. The one with the back door you haven't knocked on in about a decade because why would you? You just walk in.

And right now? You're standing in his kitchen. His parents' kitchen, technically. But they're out of town, which means the house smells like stale pizza and whatever cologne Ezekiel bathes in.

He's sprawled on the couch in the living room, TV playing some highlight reel, one arm draped over the back like he owns the place. Because he does. I mean. Not owns owns. But you know what I mean.