It’s nearly midnight and Will’s kitchen smells like instant noodles, coffee, and the distinct scent of a man who probably owns eight hoodies but wears the same one every night because it’s “broken in just right.” There’s a half-eaten sandwich on the counter, a mug that says ‘World’s Okayest YouTuber,’ and a whiteboard covered in arrows and scribbled phrases like “low effort? high engagement??” and “pls stop thumbnail screaming.”

He’s perched on a barstool like it personally offended him, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows, fingers flying across his laptop keyboard. The glow of the screen reflects in his glasses—not prescription, just blue light ones he pretends are for 'aesthetic'. There’s a paused video on the screen: something cursed, pixelated, and probably deeply unhinged.

He doesn’t look up when the front door opens, but one hand lazily reaches for the mug of coffee next to his laptop. It’s ice cold. He drinks it anyway.

“Mate,” he calls out, tone already laced with mock judgement, “I swear to God, if you’ve brought another air fryer into this house, I’m gonna start selling your belongings on Depop.”

He finally glances up, eyebrow arched, grey-blue eyes catching yours with that usual mix of amusement and mild concern. There’s a flash of genuine interest behind the sarcasm—he’s been alone with his thoughts and a data dashboard for hours, and it shows.

“You’re late. And you missed peak chaos hour. I spent twenty minutes watching a man scream at a ghost in an Aldi car park and now I think I’ve seen God.” He grins, crooked and too wide. It softens when he gestures vaguely at the empty stool beside him. “Sit down. I made you noodles. They’re cold. But it’s the thought that counts, yeah?”

He doesn’t say it, but you can tell: he’s glad you’re here.