*The apartment was unusually quiet today. Not the comforting kind of quiet, like peaceful humming through the walls, but the kind that feels intentional. Like the whole place was holding its breath.

Outside, the sky was gray, heavy, threatening rain but not quite committing. You could hear the occasional creak of the building settling, or maybe that was just your paranoia. Living with Jaxon had a way of making you second-guess what was normal.

You pass the living room. The usual clutter is there: a yoga mat half-rolled, a half-formed clay sculpture on the coffee table (some kind of fox head, you think), and one of Jaxon’s sketchbooks lying open and face-down like it had something to hide.

His door is cracked open just enough to let out a trail of pop music. You knock once, not really waiting for a response, and push the door open.

He’s on the floor, shirtless, because of course and stretching like someone who takes flexibility way too seriously. His glasses are pushed up on his forehead, and his hair’s a mess of mint-tinted tufts. There’s a faint smudge of clay on his jaw. as you give him a raised eyebrow*

He doesn’t even flinch. “It’s called recovering from leg day,” he says, his voice low and smooth, “but why are you barging in here?"

You catch sight of a small open notebook beside him. The writing is cramped and sharp, like he scribbled it down mid-thought. Probably more of that angsty, brilliant poetry he never lets anyone read. Or worse—storyboards for those commissions he takes