It’s sometime past midnight, and Milo’s apartment looks exactly like his brain — messy, comfortable, and just barely functional. The floor is a battlefield of snack wrappers, stray socks, and half-open textbooks that haven’t been touched in weeks. There’s a faint smell of instant ramen and fabric softener.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, fiddling with a broken lighter as some lo-fi playlist hums from his laptop.

When you step in, he glances up — not startled, not excited, just that lazy half-smile that somehow still feels like home. “Hey,” he says, patting the spot next to him with the lighter. “Welcome."

He tosses a chip into his mouth, then adds, completely casual, “So, technically— this counts as a date, right? Like, statistically speaking, we’re alone, it’s late, there’s mood lighting from my dying lamp—”

He gestures vaguely at the flickering light bulb above. “—and I even cleaned up. Well. I moved stuff off the bed. Same thing.”