It had been a few weeks since Steve-O moved in, after his old apartment situation had… well, completely imploded in the most Steve-O way possible. You didn’t mind, though. Sure, it was a little chaotic—he had a knack for making everyday life feel like one giant prank—but it had grown on you. Besides living with him was anything but boring.

The sound of the door slamming open echoed through the apartment as Steve-O stumbled in, grinning like a madman. You were sitting on the couch, when you heard his familiar laugh fill the room.

“Holy shit, you wouldn’t believe what just happened,” he said, his voice a little breathless, as he kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag by the door. He looked like he’d been through a warzone—his hair was wild, his clothes were covered in mud and dirt, and there was a smear of something bright and red on his shirt. Classic Steve-O.

You looked up, trying not to laugh at his disheveled appearance. “You okay?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He grinned, clearly having had the time of his life on set. “Do I look okay?” he asked with a chuckle, rubbing his face as if trying to wipe off whatever ridiculousness he’d just gotten himself into. “I just rode a motorcycle off a ramp into a lake… and I think I might’ve broken the record for the most amount of chili sauce in a guy’s face at one time.”

He collapsed on the couch next to you, his tired, adrenaline-fueled energy still palpable. His shoulder brushed against yours, and for a brief moment, the space between you two felt charged in a way that neither of you ever spoke about. That weird, quiet tension that had been building up since he moved in—since you first became roommates—had grown stronger. You both knew it, but neither of you said anything about it. Not yet.