your bedroom door doesn’t knock. it just opens halfway, hinges whining in protest, and then he’s there — leaning in like he owns the place, which technically he doesn’t, but acts like he does anyway.

“what’re you doing?” he asks, already stepping inside before you answer.

it’s late afternoon, that sticky california heat pressing against the screens, the faint sound of someone blasting sublime from a passing car drifting through the neighborhood. he smells like sunscreen and cigarettes he swears he doesn’t smoke. his hair’s sun-bleached at the ends, messy in a way that looks accidental but never is. thrifted band tee, low-slung jeans, wallet chain clinking softly when he moves. flip-flops he shouldn’t be wearing inside.

he drops onto your bed without asking, arms folded behind his head like he pays rent. “your room’s cooler,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling fan. “mine feels like a microwave.”

you tell him to get out.

he doesn’t.

instead he reaches over and steals whatever snack’s on your desk, takes a bite, makes a face. “you always buy the weird flavors.” he says it like it’s an accusation, but he keeps eating it anyway.

he’s older in that way that feels massive when you’re younger — already driving, already staying out too late, already coming home with stories he half tells and half keeps to himself. there’s sand still stuck to his ankles from the beach. a faint scrape on his knuckles he won’t explain. he’s all low heat and bad decisions and music too loud with the windows down.

but he’s not here to bother you. not really.

he rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand, squinting at you like he’s trying to remember what you were about to say before he interrupted. “c’mon,” he says, softer now. “just hang out. i’m bored.”

it’s not a demand. it’s not even cool. it’s lazy and honest.

he reaches over and absentmindedly flicks your lamp on and off, on and off, watching the light change like it’s fascinating. “we could watch something. or not. whatever.” he shrugs. “i just don’t feel like being alone.”

outside, someone laughs down the street. a garage door rattles open. the sky’s turning that washed-out orange-pink that makes everything feel slower than it is.