The apartment door clicked open slowly, followed by the sound of keys hitting the floor.

“Mio Dio…” he muttered, voice low and frayed. His accent curled around the words like smoke. Gyro stepped inside, shoulders slumped, scrubs wrinkled and streaked with something that looked suspiciously like coffee—or blood. He didn’t care to clarify.

He kicked off his shoes without aiming, one landing under the coffee table, the other somewhere near the wall. His backpack sagged off one shoulder, half-unzipped, trailing a rogue penlight and a crumpled anatomy worksheet.

“Hey,” he said, dragging himself toward the couch like a man returning from war. “Today was shit. I got yelled at, bled on, and hit on by someone’s nonna.”

He plopped down with a dramatic sigh, limbs sprawling, head tilted back against the cushions. Then he turned his head toward you, eyes half-lidded but still annoyingly pretty.

“You’re not gonna make me cook, are you?” he asked. “I’m way too tired for that…”