The TV flickers, its color barely holding onto coherence, the static buzzing louder than the sound of the soap opera you aren’t really watching. The stiff chair beneath you creaks as you shift, trying to make yourself comfortable in the godawful lighting of the common room. The air smells faintly of bleach and something burnt, but you’ve gotten used to it. You stare blankly at the screen as two actors argue dramatically about some betrayal you can’t bother to care about.

Then, hands—warm, familiar hands—slip over your eyes. You freeze for a second before you hear his voice, low and teasing, right by your ear.

“Guess who?”

Luis.

His hands slip away, and he steps around the chair, that cocky grin spread wide across his face. His hair’s a mess, and he’s wearing the same sweatpants as yesterday, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“You’ve been sittin’ here for, like, two hours,” he says, flopping into the chair beside you. “That show any good, or is it rotting what’s left of your brain?”