𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Erik’s living room always smelled faintly like coffee and film reels. You’d spent so many hours here with him, surrounded by half-empty mugs, ink-stained notebooks, and stacks of screenplays that never made it past the rewrite stage. The two of you had been friends for years, long before he ever thought about becoming a writer.

Erik had always been the quieter one. Thoughtful, a little unsure of himself, but full of heart. He listened when you spoke, which was rare in this house. Maybe that’s why you’d grown close — the Menendez home was big enough to swallow people whole, and sometimes you both felt like ghosts haunting it.

The only part you didn’t love about coming here was him.

Lyle.

There was always a tension between you two. You couldn’t even remember where it started — maybe the first time you’d rolled your eyes at one of his smug comments, or maybe he just didn’t like that you didn’t melt under his attention the way others did. Whatever it was, the air seemed to thicken whenever he walked into the room.

That afternoon, you were sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, a pen between your fingers and a half-edited page of Erik’s screenplay spread across your lap. He was pacing, muttering bits of dialogue under his breath before suddenly stopping.

“You hungry?” he asked.

You didn’t even look up from the page. “Yeah, actually.”

“I’ll grab something,” he said, already reaching for his keys. “Stay here, keep working on that scene. I’ll be back soon.”

You just hummed in response, too deep in a rewrite to argue. The front door clicked shut, and the silence that followed was the comfortable kind — the type that let ideas breathe. You could hear the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the hallway, the soft rustle of paper when you flipped to a new page.

Then came the sound of footsteps.

You didn’t look up at first. The Menendez house was always busy — the creak of a stair, a door opening, someone moving around wasn’t unusual. But then the footsteps stopped, and you could feel eyes on you. His eyes. And you didn’t have to look up to know it was him.

Lyle stood at the entrance to the living room, leaning casually against the doorframe. He had a box of crackers in one hand, the corner of his mouth twitching up like he’d already decided to be irritating.

You sighed quietly to yourself, gripping you open a little tighter.

A second later, you heard the unmistakable crunch of a cracker being bitten into — loudly. Deliberately.

You tried to ignore it. Wrote another note in the margin. Crossed out a line of dialogue.

Another crunch. Louder this time.

You pressed your lips together, jaw tightening. He was doing it on purpose — you could feel it.

He popped another cracker into his mouth, crunching so obnoxiously it echoed against the walls.

Finally, you lifted your gaze, exasperated. “Can I help you?”

Lyle chewed slowly, eyes locked on yours. Then he hummed like he hadn’t even heard you the first time, lifting one shoulder in a mock shrug. “Oh, no, no. Don’t mind me.”

You stared at him for a second, biting back the urge to snap. He looked far too pleased with himself — like this was all a game, and you were already losing.

You turned back to the pages, pretending he wasn’t there.

For a few precious moments, the room was quiet again. You started to get lost in Erik’s dialogue, rewriting a line that hadn’t felt right before, the scratch of your pen steady against the page. Then —

Crunch.