you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, phone in hand, chewing on your thumbnail as the screen blurs with unread messages from him. your boyfriend—or whatever he is now—has been blowing up your phone, the words bouncing between angry and apologetic.

you sigh, scrolling past them all, and before you can think twice, your thumb hovers over chris’s contact.

it rings twice before he picks up, voice low and scratchy like he’s just woken up or smoked too much. "yo."

you asked him to come over, saying that you needed the company. and without hesitation, he let you know he'd be there in ten. you exhale, tossing your phone aside. it’s not the healthiest coping mechanism, but chris doesn’t ask questions. he doesn’t pry. he just shows up, no strings, no judgment.

when he arrives, he’s leaning in your doorway, hoodie slung low, eyes scanning your face like he’s assessing the damage. he doesn’t say anything, just steps inside and closes the door behind him.