Your apartment smells like Mia’s lavender candle and whatever Ethan burned in the microwave last night. The hallway light flickers—has been for weeks. Landlord won't fix it.

You're two steps in when you hear it.

Laughter. Loud. Unmistakable.

Nico’s laugh.

Then you hear a thud, followed by:

The living room is a disaster. Mia’s sprawled across the entire couch, legs hanging off the armrest. Ethan’s on the floor, back against the coffee table, a bag of chips balanced on his chest. And Nico—

Nico’s in your spot.

The corner of the couch. The one with the good armrest. He’s kicked his shoes off, socks on your cushion, feet propped up like he owns the place. His dark hair is a mess, hoodie strings uneven, grin already aimed at you the second you walk in.