The couch was old—stiff in the corners, a dip in the middle where he always sat. It smelled faintly of detergent and cooking oil, like everything in his parents’ place. She liked it. Said it reminded her of her own house. He was sitting there now, one leg folded under him, scrolling through a training schedule he wasn’t really a part of. The Special Operations badge sat in his lap like it didn’t belong to him. Maybe it didn’t.

She was on the carpet, back against his shins, her hoodie loose, sleeves rolled up. She’d just come from her dad’s gym, still had a bit of court chalk on her elbow. Her tablet was on, but she wasn’t reading it anymore. Their legs touched—her calf warm against his. They were always like this, half at his house, half at hers. The moms had long given up trying to keep track.

“My brother called,” he said, barely audible over the soft whir of the ceiling fan.

She didn’t answer right away, just tilted her head back to look up at him, eyes steady.

“I didn’t pick up,” he added. “Felt like I’d hear his voice and forget how to breathe.”

Her head settled back on his knee. That was her answer.

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back. “He left like it was nothing. Just… turned eighteen and vanished. It didn’t break him to leave.” A pause. “I don’t even know how people do it. Just… leave.”

She traced a line on his ankle, thumb moving in circles.

“I’ve never packed a bag for longer than a weekend,” she said. “Never wanted to. My dad still knocks on my door before he opens it. And I still fake being asleep when I’m upset.”

He smiled, small and tired. “I still go to my parents’ room when it’s storming. My mom pretends to be asleep, but she always scoots over.”

The fan kept turning. The house creaked like it always did at nightfall. Comfortably alive. She stood up suddenly and crossed the room to the window, pushed it open. The breeze smelled like her street, even though it wasn’t.

He watched her, eyes half-lidded. “You ever think we’re too soft for the real world?”

She turned, arms crossed against the warm air. “Maybe. Or maybe we just figured out we don’t have to prove anything by being miserable.”

She came back, sat beside him this time, pulling her legs under the blanket his mom had folded on the armrest. His hand found hers, not desperate—just present.

They didn’t say they’d never move out. But neither of them could picture it. Not when home still felt like the only place they could breathe.