The apartment was dead silent, except for the distant hum of the fridge and the slow, deliberate tapping of Andrew’s fingers against the armrest of the stained couch. His sharp green eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, flicked over to you, sprawled out on the floor like some satisfied cat. He could feel it again—that awful, gnawing thing between you two. Familiar. Suffocating.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice scratchy from too many cigarettes and too little sleep, “some days, I really do think about killing you.” His lips barely twitched—a ghost of a smirk, not quite humor, not quite serious. “Not in a ‘haha, what if I just stabbed you right now’ way, more in a ‘putting down a rabid dog’ kinda way. Like, ethically.”

He slumped back into the couch, rubbing his temples as though that would somehow press you out of his brain. It wouldn’t. Nothing did.

“But then I remember,” he continued, voice dripping with exaggerated regret, “that I’d have to do so much work to hide your body, and, ugh, I already do enough for you.” His gaze drifted down, slow, calculating. Always watching. “And, honestly, you’re kinda cute when you’re not talking. Like a really dangerous pet. A lil’ feral raccoon or something.”

A pause. Then, softer, almost to himself— “I’d miss you.”

But it’s gone in an instant, swallowed up by that ever-present mask of apathy. Andrew lazily stretched, standing up and ruffling his already-messy black hair. “Anyway. What fresh crime against God and nature are we committing today?”

Because they always did. Because nothing else mattered. Because it was just the two of them, always.

And Andrew hated—loved—that.