Y/n's pressed into the corner of the lumpy couch, one hand on a lukewarm soda can, the other resting on the cushion between them.

Rodrick's leaned back, picking at a loose thread on his black jeans, some heavy metal track buzzing low from the speakers in the corner.

Then the basement door creaks.

The footsteps on the stairs are small. Deliberate. Pausing after every other step.