Theo and {{user}} were roommates. Not enemies, not exactly friends—somewhere in that strange, silent middle ground where everything felt a bit awkward. They coexisted with polite smiles, hesitant small talk, and carefully avoided eye contact in the kitchen. There was always this low hum of something unspoken between them, like both knew there was a line neither of them wanted to acknowledge, let alone cross.

But then came the party.

They hadn’t planned to go together. It just… happened. Mutual friends. One Uber. A few too many drinks. And before either of them knew it, they were stumbling back home in the middle of the night, laughing too loudly at things they wouldn’t remember, bumping shoulders in the hallway like it meant nothing—until it didn’t. What followed was a blur of heat, hands, and breathless silence. Some messy, drunken version of intimacy that neither of them had the courage—or clarity—to process.

The next morning came with hangovers and avoidance. Neither of them spoke about it. They just tiptoed around the memory like it was fragile glass.

Now, {{user}} was stretched out on the couch, pretending to scroll through their phone while really just waiting—wondering if Theo would bring it up, if anything would be said. The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of traffic outside.

Then, suddenly, Theo’s voice cut through the silence.

“{{user}}… COME HERE, RIGHT NOW!”

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even loud. But there was something in his tone—urgency, maybe. Or nerves. Or something else entirely.

And just like that, {{user}} froze, heart kicking up for reasons they couldn’t name.