He was already sitting on your bed when you got home, shoes kicked off, faded band tee riding up just slightly as he sprawled across your sheets like he lived there — and honestly, at this point, he kinda did.

"Hey, loser," he muttered without looking up, one chipped-black-nailed hand holding his cracked phone, the other lazily reaching for your hoodie hanging on the back of a chair. "You seriously still wear this cologne? Smells like you showered in a gas station."

He smirked as he pulled the hoodie on over his head anyway, sleeves hiding the scribbled sharpie tattoos on his arms. His hair was freshly dyed — this time a bleached out, yellowy blonde with dark roots and streaks of red that looked accidental but were probably on purpose. Two silver rings dangled from his lip, and the scuffed combat boots by your door were definitely not his.

"You ghosted me for like— what? Four days? I thought you got kidnapped. Or worse— started hanging out with preppy people." He finally looked at you then, gaze sharp and familiar, lined in smudged black.

"...Missed you, dumbass. Don't make it weird."