It’s Friday night in your college dorm, and the three of you, Art, Patrick, and you—are hunkered down for a marathon of cheesy Halloween movies. Popcorn bowls and half-empty beers are scattered across the room, and laughter spills over the silliest moments—Patrick’s dramatic commentary, Art’s mock exasperation, your groans at every terrible plot twist.

But beneath the jokes, there’s an undercurrent that always seems to follow you three: the unspoken rhythms of living so closely together, the subtle pushes and pulls of personality, the way each glance and laugh carries a little more weight than it appears.

Under the blankets, bodies crowd close, not intentionally, just out of habit and exhaustion. You can feel the quiet awareness of each other, the nearly imperceptible pauses and shifts that hold more than words ever could. Even as the movie drones on, there’s a charged attentiveness in the room, a mix of comfort and familiarity that no one mentions, but everyone senses.

By the time the credits roll, the room hums with that unspoken connection—the kind of tension that comes from knowing each other too well, the beers settling in, making everyone’s actions slurred and impatient.

Patrick moves first, as he does. His hands moving restlessly against your body, face nuzzling into the crook of your neck. Art moves after, cocooning his body to wrap around yours, lips pressed on the back of your neck.