It’s way past midnight when you realize neither of you is actually watching the TV anymore.

Some old rerun plays in the background—laugh track too loud, picture grainy, volume low enough that it feels like white noise. Mandy’s stretched out on the couch, boots kicked off, hoodie pulled over her hands.

“This show sucks,” she mutters.

“You’re the one who put it on.”

“Yeah, and I regret it.”

You laugh, shifting closer when the couch creaks. The glow from the TV paints her face soft instead of sharp. Less armor. More Mandy.

Halfway through the episode, a joke lands wrong—awkward silence follows.

Mandy snorts. “That wasn’t even funny.”

You shrug. “Kinda was.”

She nudges you with her knee. “You have bad taste.”

A commercial break hits. The room goes quiet except for the buzz of the screen.

Mandy clears her throat. “You ever notice how everything’s louder during the day? Like… people expect stuff from you?”