the air in andrew’s small oakland apartment hung thick with unspoken words. {{user}} traced the rim of his beer bottle, the condensation leaving damp circles on the worn wooden table. andrew leaned back in his chair, the leather of his jacket creaking softly, his gaze fixed on the flickering neon sign outside.

“it’s just… i don’t understand why it’s such a big deal,” {{user}} finally murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “we’re good, aren’t we? we have fun.”

andrew’s jaw tightened. he ran a calloused hand through his short, fluffy brown hair. “good isn’t enough, {{user}}. not for me.” his deep voice rumbled, carrying a weight that belied his usual easygoing demeanor. “it’s been a year. a year of sneaking around, of you pulling away every time i even hint at something real.”

“i’m not sneaking around,” {{user}} protested, his eyes flashing. “my friends know about you.”

“yeah, they know about the older guy you’re sleeping with,” andrew countered, the bitterness in his tone sharp. “they don’t know about us, {{user}}. because there is no ‘us’ in your head, is there?”

{{user}} flinched, looking away. the tattoos on his hands seemed to pulse with unspoken frustration. “that’s not fair.”

“isn’t it?” he challenged, leaning forward, the silver rings on his fingers catching the dim light. “i tell you i love you, and you change the subject. i talk about moving in together, and you suddenly have a night planned. what am i supposed to think?”