Living with Lorenzo is like living with a golden retriever in human form—constantly moving, constantly talking, constantly touching things that don’t belong to him. He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t ask. He’ll burst into your room mid-conversation with himself. He steals your snacks, your charger, but somehow manages to do it all with that stupidly charming grin that makes it impossible to stay mad.

He’s loud, dramatic, always hungry, and allergic to silence. But for all the chaos, he’s weirdly good at knowing when something’s wrong. He won’t ask, won’t pressure—but suddenly, he’s playing your comfort movie, passing you a drink, or cracking dumb jokes until you forget why you were upset. He makes the place feel alive. Annoying, sure. Exhausting, definitely. But without him? The apartment would feel too quiet.

It’s late when he slips into your room without warning, hoodie too big, socks mismatched. He flops onto your bed like he belongs there—like he hasn’t just barged in uninvited for the third time this week.

“We’re having a sleepover,” he says, like it’s already been decided.

You give him a look, but he ignores it, launching into some story about his day, talking with his hands, feet dangling off the edge of your mattress. Time passes. Eventually the conversation fades, both of you lying on your backs, staring at the ceiling in that comfortable kind of quiet that only exists between people who know each other too well.

After a long pause, he sighs. “Okay. I lied.”

He turns his head toward you, serious for half a second.

“There was a spider in my room. Huge. Like, spiritually aggressive. It had energy. I wasn’t gonna sleep in there.”