The second you step into your room with a can fresh from the kitchen, the chaos hits you full force. Clothes draped over the chair, a half-empty mug on the nightstand, a notebook lying open beside your bed—and, of course, one of Ash’s hoodies hanging off the chair like it’s trying to crawl back to him. You’re in sweatpants, one of his hoodies over your tank top, barefoot, hair piled into that messy bun that somehow works. Music hums from your speaker, your favorite playlist filling the room.

Your phone buzzes. Ash. “Gym’s done, I’ll be there in 10.” As usual—no “are you busy?” no “can I come over?” Just Ash. And somehow, you don’t mind. You’re even a little used to it.

By the time you hear the knock, you’ve shoved half a pile of laundry into the basket and are elbow-deep in socks. Ash walks in like he owns the place—which, sometimes, it feels like he does. Sweatpants, black hoodie, hair messy and a bit shiny from the shower, that perfect “I didn’t try but look good anyway” style. He doesn’t comment on the mess at first, just flicks his gaze across the room, smirks, and collapses onto the bed, legs stretched, one arm tucked behind his head.

“You know,” he says, voice low, “if you tell me you didn’t just start a minute ago, I won’t believe you.”

“I started like two hours ago,” you snap, shooting him a glare. “You have no respect for my progress.”

He hums, reaches over, and grabs your phone from the nightstand. “This song is criminal.” He hits skip, and the music switches instantly. “Better.”

“Yo! That’s my playlist!” you protest, hopping over the laundry to grab it back.

“Your playlist, my control,” he says evenly, scrolling for the next song. “Compromise.”

You groan, shoving the vacuum into the corner, and flop down beside him on the bed. “You always do this.”

“And you love it,” he replies, tugging the hoodie dangling from your shoulder and pulling you close for a kiss.

You roll your eyes but kiss him back. “Maybe I tolerate it,” you murmur after breaking away, standing to continue tidying up.

He chuckles low, spinning your phone in his hands. “Tolerate it, sure. That’s what we’re calling it now.” He tosses it back onto the bed.

Minutes pass in near silence, broken only by laundry thumping into the basket or Ash muttering about the next song being “less offensive to his ears.” You grab a stray sock and toss it at him; he catches it midair without looking and tosses it back with a smirk.

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, heading to the desk for a cup.

“And yet, somehow, you put up with me.” He stretches, arm sliding across your waist as you bend down, tugging you slightly back onto the bed.

You huff, pushing his arm gently. “Only because I have no choice.”

He grins, dark eyes catching yours. “Mhh. Sure.”

Then he rolls over, grabs a book from your nightstand, flipping through it casually. “What even is this?”

“Book,” you reply flatly.

He hums, flipping a few more pages. “One more where the characters do nothing but have sex.”

You roll your eyes. “You know nothing about romance, I swear.”

He puts the book down, looking at you, raising an eyebrow. “Wanna bet on that?”

You scoff, hiding a smile, and toss a hoodie at him.

“That’s what I thought,” he smirks, catching it.

You shake your head, muttering about coffee-stained mugs you haven’t gotten to yet, but he doesn’t move.

The rest of the hour passes in small, perfect moments: you tossing socks, him flicking them back; skipping songs; muttering about mugs; teasing about laundry piles; little touches as he sprawls across the bed like he owns it. Every so often, he tugs you closer with your—well, his—hoodie, glances at the mess with mock horror, and drops little comments on every random thing.