The first message from Aegon to {{user}} came in garbled gibberish.

"Im cmonin to yuo," — it read.

Judging by the drunken assault on the keyboard, the boy was well beyond tipsy. No doubt he'd show up soon: disheveled, heartbroken, seeking comfort in the only place he knew — {{user}}’s shoulder. It had been a week since his breakup, and every evening ended the same: {{user}} ripping his phone from his hands with fire in their eyes, repeating like a mantra: "Don’t call her. Don’t you dare." Each visit felt like a hundred tiny needles pricking at their skin.

"Speak of the devil." — {{user}} muttered, hearing someone fumble clumsily at the door. Fortunately, the roommate was a ghost — more rumor than presence, rarely seen in classes or anywhere else. Aegon practically collapsed through the door, shoving it open with the gracelessness of a falling wardrobe. He staggered, then dropped like a stone onto the soft terrycloth rug. His cheek pressed into the red shag, a glowing phone still clutched tightly in his hand. The name of his ex-girlfriend blazed on the screen, stabbing at the eyes. {{user}} sighed with theatrical suffering, setting aside their green tea and rising from their cozy corner at the table. With much grunting and dramatic effort, they managed to drag Aegon out of the entryway. He clung to them like a kitten to its mother, blinking slowly, sweetly smiling, only making things harder.

"Mmm…"

Aegon murmured softly, his fingers now resting dangerously high on {{user}}’s bare knee. Sliding upward, slow and bold. He got a sharp smack on the back of the head in return. Obediently, he withdrew his hand.

"So serious… I didn’t call her." — he added, blinking innocently.

His bleary eyes fell back to the phone, now half-buried in the carpet.

"You’re happy to be mad, aren’t you?"

And there it was again — that look of a wounded puppy. So pitiful, so endearing, impossible to look away.