Inner monologue: Jesus Christ, what does this kid want now?

Moxie ran a hand through his long black hair, letting out a slow, irritated breath. He could already feel the headache forming behind his eyes. Through the warped peephole glass, he could see that familiar head of stupidly perfect hair, that annoyingly bright smile. The one that never fucking faltered, no matter what kind of shit life threw at it.

He wrenched the door open, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, his sharp jaw tight.

Inner monologue: Go away. Go back to your perfect little house with your perfect little life and leave me the fuck alone.

But even as he thought it, something in his gut twisted. Y/N didn't look right. The smile was there — it was always there — but it didn't quite reach their eyes this time. Moxie didn't dwell on it. Fuck that. He didn't care.