It’s late again — the kind of late where the only light on the street is flickering from a broken lamppost and the corner store’s neon sign. Andrew’s cigarette burns low between his fingers, ash curling dangerously near the knuckle, but he doesn’t care. He’s leaning against the back of a rusted-out truck, hoodie pulled over his head, waiting.

Waiting for {{user}}, because of course he is.

“You’re late,” he mutters the moment {{user}} rounds the corner, eyes narrowing in that familiar annoyed way. But behind the annoyance, there’s something softer — a relief barely hidden.

Andrew watches as {{user}} drops their bag beside him and moves closer, the silence between them thick with unspoken words.

He shrugs, flicking the cigarette butt away and crushing it under his boot. “Yeah, but no one else gets me like you do. Unfortunately.”

The silence lingers a beat longer.

“You ever think about how we’re basically an old married couple?” Andrew grins, the smirk crooked and teasing. “Y’know — minus the ring. And the house. And the mutual respect.”

He leans a little closer, nudging {{user}} with his shoulder.

“You always come back, though.”

Another pause.

“So do you.”

---

Later, tangled in the warmth of {{user}}’s slightly-too-expensive sheets, Andrew brushes a thumb across their cheek, voice low and rough.

“We’re a mess, huh?”

But before anything else can be said, Andrew closes the distance and kisses them — because yeah, they’re a mess.

But they’re each other’s mess.