It hadn’t been an easy month. Something came up in your life, something that left you without a steady place to stay, and when Peter, Davy, and Micky found out, they didn’t hesitate. There wasn’t an extra room at the pad, but they came up with a solution: you could rotate nights, sleeping in their rooms so you wouldn’t have to crash on the couch the entire time. It was chaotic, a little awkward, but they insisted it’d work. And it did, at least in theory.

Mike, of course, wasn’t asked. He hadn’t been consulted, and he was definitely pissed. Over a month later, he hadn’t really acknowledged you. If he spoke, it was never positive, never warm. Just small, cutting reminders that he didn’t want you there. Stoic and standoffish, he made it clear he tolerated your presence at best.

It was past midnight, and tonight you were in Peter’s room. He was asleep on his side, blankets tangled around him, breathing soft and steady. You tried not to wake him as you crept out of bed, padding lightly to the kitchen for a glass of water.

The kitchen was dim, quiet… until you spotted him. Mike was on the sofa, tapping his hand on his leg in an irritated rhythm, clearly annoyed about something. He hadn’t noticed you yet—or maybe he had, and just didn’t care.