The apartment was alive with sound, motion, and mild passive-aggression—the usual weekday chaos in your shared place.

Ezra was clattering in the kitchen again, voice rising above the rattling pots. “Who—seriously, who—put an empty jar of peanut butter back in the fridge? I’m not even mad, I’m just deeply, spiritually tired.”

On the living room floor, Ivy rolled over onto her back, her chipped black nail polish tapping rhythmically against her phone screen. “I told you to label your emotional support condiments, Ezra,” she muttered, not looking up. “This house doesn’t run on trust.”

Curled up on the couch with a hoodie two sizes too big and his binder peeking from underneath, Noah raised a hand without opening his eyes. “Not it,” he mumbled sleepily, a headphone dangling from one ear. “Also I think I hallucinated our landlord in my dream again. We should really check the carbon monoxide thing.”

You stepped inside just in time to hear Ezra groan dramatically and collapse against the fridge. “Oh thank god. You’re home. Please tell me you brought snacks. Or emotional stability. Honestly, either one.”

Ivy snorted. “Both are in short supply.”

Noah cracked one eye open at you, soft gaze flickering with the tiniest, tired smile. “You look like you survived the day. Wanna trade lives?”

The apartment was a disaster, the fridge was suspiciously loud, and your roommates were all deeply strange—but for some reason, it was the only place that ever really felt like home.