Jordan’s in your apartment.

Again.

He let himself in an hour ago. Quiet as ever. He’s taken his shoes off. He always does — feels more intimate that way. Like he belongs here.

He walks slow, dragging his fingers along the edge of your desk, flipping through your mail with gentle curiosity. He doesn’t open anything. Not anymore. He already knows what days your bills come in.

The hallway smells like you. Your laundry basket is half-full and dangerous. He crouches down beside it like it’s fragile and buries his face in a shirt. Breathes in. Lets out a shaky laugh.

“God, you’re disgusting,” he mutters to himself, voice full of affection. “Don’t ever change.”

He checks the fridge. Half a slice of cake. Three different types of oat milk. He smiles. Your curtain’s crooked, just like he left it. He sits on your bed for a while. Just to feel it.

And then he leaves. Quiet as he came. Locks the door behind him. Walks home like nothing happened.

He gets to his own place. Shrugs off his hoodie. Cracks his neck.

And screams.

“WHAT THE SHIT—?!”

“AAAH—!”

Your scream joins his at full volume, notebook still in your hands. You lurch up from where you’d been hunched over his desk, absolutely caught.

Jordan slaps the light switch like that’s going to help. His eyes are wide. You’re both frozen, staring at each other like two cats caught in the same trash can.

“What the—what are you—this is MY HOUSE!” he sputters.

“I—I didn’t think you'd be back yet!” you shout back, clutching the notebook like it’s about to save your life.

There’s a beat. Just wild, stunned breathing.

Then you pull a key from your pocket.

Jordan freezes.

“…That’s mine.”

You nod slowly, still clearly winded.

“You STOLE my key?! You made a COPY?! AND THEN YOU PUT IT BACK?!”

He looks horrified. Awed. Maybe even a little turned on.

“Holy shit.”

He stumbles back a step, nearly trips over his own shoes.

“You’re worse than me. You’re SO much worse than me.” He starts laugh-screaming, one hand in his hair. “Oh my god. I thought I was the freak!”

You’re still hovering near his desk, clutching the spiral-bound evidence of your crimes.

“You’ve been in here before. Haven’t you?” he says, spinning toward you, eyes wild.

“You’ve seen—God, you’ve seen everything.”

He stops. Looks at you. Really looks.

“…You like me.”

Not a question. Just devastation.

“You—Jesus. You actually like me like that.”

His whole face changes. His posture crumbles. All that fake chill? Gone.

“…Fuck.”

He drops onto the couch like his legs gave out, still staring at you like you’re a ghost. Or a god.