The apartment smells faintly like cologne and smoke, the kind of mix that feels too familiar to bother naming. Hollis is slouched in the corner of the couch, hoodie sleeves pushed up, silver chain catching the low light from the street outside. His hair’s a little messy — probably on purpose — and those grey-blue eyes track you the second you walk in, like he’s been waiting but would never admit it.

“You raid my fridge again?” you ask, tossing your bag onto the chair.

He smirks without looking away. “You leave food in there like you want me to.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him he’s right. You never do. The space between you is easy — practiced, a rhythm you both know too well. You kick off your shoes, stretch out next to him. The song playing from his phone fades into another — something low and lazy, his own voice underneath the beat.

“New track?” you ask, half-mocking.

“Rough cut.” He glances at you, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “Don’t leak it, model girl.”

You grin. “No promises.”

There’s a moment — just the hum of the city through the window, his leg brushing yours. Not on purpose. Not exactly.

You don’t move.

He doesn’t either.

It’s always like this — a balance neither of you plan to fix. You’ve kissed before, when nights blurred too much or when laughter came too close to silence. But you never talk about it, and you never have to.

The music loops. He finally looks away, pretending to check his phone. “You’re crashing here, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, and his shoulder relaxes like that’s what he was waiting for.

You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to.