The sun was already setting when {{user}} arrived at Drew’s building, a bag of food in one hand and the other rummaging through her backpack until she found the small spare key. He’d given it to her weeks ago, with that tilted smile and his usual laid-back tone:

“In case you ever wanna break in and steal my snacks.”

Today, it wasn’t about the snacks. She just wanted to see him.

She opened the door quietly, making no sound, and shut it gently behind her. Everything inside was silent. Too silent.

“Drew?” she called softly, but there was no answer.

Tiptoeing down the hallway toward the living room, she noticed the TV was on, paused on the menu of some movie. And there he was — Drew Starkey, completely knocked out on the couch, one hand still loosely holding the remote, his head tilted to the side like sleep had ambushed him without warning.

{{user}} couldn’t help but smile at the sight. He looked ridiculously adorable — shirt wrinkled, mismatched socks, and even in sleep, a slight furrow in his brow.

She walked over quietly, crouched down in front of him, and gently placed her hand on his shoulder.

“Drew.”

No reaction.

“Drew,” she said louder.

He jolted awake, eyes flying open, the remote flying out of his hand.

“AH—! What the—?!” he gasped, startled, until he finally focused on her face. “Jesus Christ! You scared the hell out of me!”