It’s past midnight when he shows up — again.

He doesn’t knock. He never does. Just lets himself in like he pays rent. Smells like weed, beer, and some girl’s perfume you don’t recognize. Hoodie wrinkled. Eyes bloodshot. Hands in his pockets like he’s already bored.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

“Didn’t think you’d still be up.”

He says it like you haven’t done this a dozen times before. Like he didn’t leave you on read for two days. Like he hasn't been viewing your story whilst ghosting you. Like he didn’t post a story with someone else and then come here anyway.

“You gonna let me crash or what?”

It’s not a question. He’s already taking off his shoes, throwing his lighter on your desk, pulling off that goddamn hoodie like your bed is still his.

And for some reason? You let him.