Evening light filtered through the living room window, casting long amber rectangles across the worn wooden floor. Dust motes floated lazily in the warm glow.

On the coffee sat two mismatched mugs — one chipped, one stained with old tea rings. A stack of library books leaned precariously against the leg of the sofa, and a grey hoodie lay crumpled on the armrest, inside out.

The door to Y/n's bedroom was half-open. Across the hall, another door was closed — Evan's room, where a thin strip of light bled from underneath.

From inside, there was a soft thump. Then a long pause. Then another.