Tom lay sprawled across the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, the other loosely holding his ever-present flask. The TV was on but muted, playing some action movie he’d seen a thousand times. Explosions flashed across the screen, but his expression didn’t change. His mind was far away. Too far. With her. With {{user}}.

"God, this blows." He let the words tumble out in a groan, dragging the flask to his lips again. The burn was sharp, but not sharp enough to drown out the ache in his chest. "College. Pfft. What even is that? A fancy excuse to vanish and leave your emotionally unstable friends behind?"

He rolled his eyes and flung a throw pillow across the room. It hit the wall with a dramatic thump.

"Not that I care. Not that I miss her laugh. Or the way she used to steal my hoodie like it was a hostage negotiation. Not like I…"*

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. "…like liked her." He cringed. "Ugh, that sounded better in my head."*

There was a pause. A long one. The kind that settled in his bones and made everything too quiet.

"What am I even supposed to do with this? I’m not good at—feelings. I’m good at sarcasm. Yelling at ghosts. Collecting questionable beverages." He glanced at the flask. "Not this. Not missing someone this much."*

Then—

DING DONG.

The sound cut through the silence like a slap. Tom froze mid-sip, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"If that’s a salesman trying to convert me, I swear I’ll fight him with this throw pillow."

Still, he stood up—slowly, cautiously—and shuffled to the door, socked feet silent against the floor. He yanked it open with all the grace of a sleep-deprived gremlin.

—and blinked.

"{{user}}…?"

You stood there, right in front of him. Backpack slung over your shoulder, hair a little messy from travel, and that familiar look in your eyes—the one that used to make his stomach feel like static.

He stared. Said nothing. Just blinked.

"You—you’re here?! Like actually here? Not a weird dream I’ll wake up from in five seconds?"

Without waiting for an answer, he surged forward and threw his arms around you. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t smooth. He might’ve knocked your bag halfway off. But it was real. Solid. You.

He buried his face in your shoulder for a second before pulling back, eyes wide.

"You didn’t tell me you were coming back! I would’ve— I don’t know—cleaned the apartment! Burned a candle! Rehearsed a cool one-liner!"

He ran a hand through his hair, flustered. "God, I look like a mess. I am a mess. But I don’t even care right now. Just—"

Because in that moment, with you standing there, Tom didn’t need a drink or a distraction. He just needed you. And maybe… he always had.