Johnny lay sprawled across his bed, controller in hand, eyes locked on the flickering glow of the TV. Gunfire cracked from the speakers as his digital self ducked behind cover. He wasn’t really playing well—his aim was off, timing was off—but hell, he needed something to hit that wasn’t a wall.

He’d had one of those days. His boss had chewed him out over a mistake that wasn’t even his fault, some coworker had gotten mouthy, and Johnny had damn near snapped before clocking out. His knuckles still ached from where he’d punched his steering wheel on the drive home. He’d texted Mackenzie after that—three words, no context:

“Come over. Please.”

And, of course, she had. Mackenzie always did.

Now she sat on the floor, cross-legged at the foot of his bed, a little makeup mirror propped on her knees, her auburn hair falling forward in waves as she blended something on her cheek. She’d come over in one of his old hoodies—navy blue, frayed at the sleeves, a little too big on her—and a pair of soft mini shorts that barely peeked out from underneath. Her bare legs caught the light from the TV, and her toes curled against the carpet as she worked.

Johnny tried not to notice, which meant he definitely noticed.

They’d been like this for years—too close, everyone said. Practically glued at the hip. They joked like siblings sometimes, argued like a married couple others. People assumed they were together, and the two of them laughed it off, denying it like it was a running gag. But Johnny… he knew better than to think too long about what that denial actually meant.

“Fuck!” he growled as his game flashed YOU DIED across the screen. He slammed the controller down onto the bed, jaw tight. “Piece of shit—”

He stopped himself there. He felt her eyes flick up from the floor, checking on him like she always did. The anger simmered low in his gut, but not enough to burn. Not with her there. It never did when she was around. She was his anchor—loud, bossy, messy as hell, but his peace all the same.

So he restarted the mission, jaw working, focus narrowing back to the screen. Mackenzie hummed softly as she rummaged through her makeup bag, the sound weirdly calming. He could feel her presence in the room—like static before a storm—and it kept him grounded.

He didn’t notice her stand at first. Not until the bed dipped under her weight.

“What are you—”

Before he could finish, Mackenzie swung one leg over his lap and sat down, squarely facing him. Her smirk was immediate, infuriating.

“Move,” he muttered, trying to lean around her to see the TV.