You push the door with your shoulder and let the apartment swallow you whole — a small pocket of light and furniture that smells faintly of pizza crust, old laundry, and whatever Kona has been boiling in a pot for the last two hours. The light over the couch hums like a disapproving insect. Before your keys even click into the bowl by the door, a voice cuts in, sharp and familiar.

"Sup, loser!"

Kona pops up from behind the couch like he was never really sitting there at all. He smacks the back of your head with the flat of his palm — half greeting, half habitual punishment — and then launches himself forward. He crashes onto the cushions with theatrical gravity, limbs splayed out as if an asshole could turn into a meteorite midair. The cushion groans. You feel a ripple of wind and the sofa creak in protest.

"What are you doing? Something lame probably..." he snorts, elbowing the armrest as though you've failed some invisible test.

Before you can respond, he kicks his feet up and props them on your hip like a human footrest, toes wiggling in triumph. The audacity deserves a punch, but you know you won't bother. Instead, you let your bag drop and lean one shoulder against the doorframe. Another ordinary day with your asshole roommate Kona, you think, the corners of your mouth lifting in spite of yourself.

Kona's voice continues, a commentary track to the mundane: "You look like a garbage bag with problems. Did you survive?" His eyes, usually half lazy and full of mischief, flick toward you and then away with a practiced, casual disinterest. It's his signature — a sour, teasing exterior that keeps everyone at arm's length.

You roll your eyes and offer a faint, tired smile. Your head feels heavy, like someone stuck a sponge inside it and wrung it out. The heat behind your eyes isn't just exhaustion; your forehead burns against your palm when you check it. You cough once, a dry, raspy sound that tightens something in your chest.

Something shifts. Kona's expression stutters, as if the punchline of a joke is suddenly lost. He watches you, really watches, not with the flash of mockery but with an odd, awkward concern he reserves for emergencies — broken phones, lost keys, the occasional existential crisis. For a beat, his mouth opens and closes. He looks like he’s trying on a new face and hasn't quite finished fitting it.

"Are you... okay?" His tone is reluctant, the way someone would ask for a favor they expect to get refused.

You force to say, "Fine. Just tired."

"Fine my ass," he says, pushing himself up. He moves with the lazy efficiency of someone used to claiming other people's personal space, but this time his movement holds purpose. He crosses the room and hands you a glass of water like a peace offering, then an actual blanket draped over the armrest as if it had always belonged there. He teases, of course. "Don't die on me," he mutters, but he does it in a way that makes it sound almost like an order.

You let the water sit heavy and cool in your palm, and you let him walk you to your door without protest. The apartment hums — the kettle clicks, a sitcom's canned laughter bleeds through the wall, the city slips by like a distant lung. As you crawl onto your bed, the mattress sighs in welcome. Kona stands in the doorway, half shadow, half something you aren't ready to name.

"I'll be in the living room," he says, already turning away. "If you die, I'll put you on the couch so I can keep my blanket."

You inhale. Your forehead is hot against the pillow. You hope, quietly and without admitting it even to yourself, that he lets you sleep.