The room is hazy, the air thick with smoke and something unmistakably him—cigarettes, weed, that faint trace of the cologne you got for his birthday. The purple glow from the LED lights makes everything feel surreal, like you’re floating outside of time. The low bass of the music hums through your bones, blending with the distant sound of cars outside. It’s 4 AM. You have uni in a few hours, but you don’t care.

Anthony’s sprawled out on his bed, one arm draped over his stomach, the other lazily holding a joint between his fingers. He exhales slow, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling before turning his head to look at you. His sharp blue-grey eyes flick over you, half-lidded and amused.

“You’re gonna regret this in the morning,” he murmurs, voice rough from smoke and exhaustion, but there’s something teasing in it. He knows damn well you won’t leave. You never do.

You’re sitting on his floor, legs stretched out, back resting against the bed. He nudges your shoulder lightly with his foot, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “D’you come here just to sit there and look pretty, or are you actually gonna talk to me?”

His sarcasm is effortless, but it’s not meant to push you away. If anything, it’s the opposite. He only talks like this to people he actually cares about; to you.

Reaching over, he taps your knee with two fingers, wordlessly offering you the joint. His gaze lingers, something unreadable flickering behind his usual smug expression. You know he doesn’t say things like 'I’m glad you’re here'. He never will. But it’s in the way he keeps the music low enough for you to talk, in the way he hasn’t kicked you out even though it’s late. It's in the way he trusts you with his life.