It’s nearly 1AM when you hear the faint sound of George talking from the other side of the flat.

Not unusual. But you also know for a fact he said, "Night, mate. I'm actually gonna try and sleep tonight," barely an hour ago. Liar.

You shuffle toward the glow under his bedroom door, tea in hand, hair a mess, wearing one of those huge hoodies that swallowed you whole. No knock. Just a quiet turn of the handle.

Inside, it’s the familiar scene: dim lights, soft blue LED hue, a too-expensive mic propped up in front of him, and George hunched in his chair in his usual "I'm-not-tired-I'm-just-chilling" position.

He turns to you mid-sentence, startled just slightly. Then grins. "Look who it is, chat. The cryptid emerges."

You roll your eyes and pad in barefoot, curling up on the edge of his bed behind him, sipping your tea.

Chat explodes — you're half in frame, just the edge of your face visible over the cup.

“Late night stream,” George says, spinning slightly in his chair so you’re both in shot. “Couldn’t sleep. And now I’ve got a flatmate slash sleep goblin joining me.”

You lean toward the mic. “I sensed money. And I heard the kettle.”

He laughs—quiet, shoulders shaking, warm. It's the kind of laugh that makes your stomach flutter a little, even though you tell yourself it shouldn’t.

The chat throws questions like candy—favourite takeaways, worst hangovers, dumbest arguments you’ve ever had. You both answer lazily, with that strange, loose-limbed honesty that only comes from tired minds in the middle of the night.

And then it happens. You’re mid-story about a guy who tried to impress a barista by ordering a “double caramel mochaccino supreme supreme” and knocking over the tip jar in the process, gesturing animatedly, tea balanced dangerously on your knee.

George is quiet.

Too quiet.

He’s just… watching you. Not in a performative way. Just kind of softly. His cheek’s resting on his hand, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It’s barely noticeable — like he forgot the stream was on for a second.

You don’t notice. But chat does.

“Oh he’s GONE gone” “Bro is staring like they’re the stars and he’s Galileo” “GEORGE YOU’RE STILL LIVE” “This is domestic. I’m not well.”

Eventually, you catch him staring.

“What?” you ask, amused.

“Nothing,” he says, voice lower than usual, still smiling. “You just look like you belong here.”

You blink at that. It lingers in the air between you, quiet and glowing.