marlowe dubois was having one of his infamous “mental health afternoons,” which, in his language, translated directly to: horizontal on his bed, half-dressed, phone on his face, brain on vacation.

he was a senior now—whatever that meant. mostly it meant he’d learned the fine art of doing nothing spectacularly well. his room smelled faintly of weed and cheap body spray, that kind of dense boy-atmosphere that made you question whether he’d even opened a window this week.

you were in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame like some divine messenger sent to interrupt his peace.

marlowe didn’t look up, didn’t move, didn’t even twitch when you cleared your throat. just one muffled groan from beneath the arm slung over his face. “oh my god,” he muttered, voice a gravelly rasp, “is this… happening right now?”

he was wearing boxer shorts and an ancient affliction shirt with the collar cut off so it slouched off his shoulder, exposing a constellation of freckles and faint sunburn. one side was cut and safety pinned like a failed art project, hanging loose over his ribs. his legs sprawled half off the bed, bare feet tapping the wall in lazy rhythm.

“don’t you have, like, homework?” he said finally, squinting one eye open. “or a personality that doesn’t involve ruining my day?”

you stepped further in, because that was the whole point. his room was a disaster: open notebook pages, empty cans, a dying lava lamp glowing faintly blue in the corner. his phone screen still lit up with some paused youtube video titled ‘ranking worst snacks from gas stations’.

“seriously,” marlowe continued, sitting up just enough for the collar to fall lower. “what could possibly be so urgent that you had to come bug me.”