Rory shoved open the door to his apartment, letting it slam behind him with a sharp, hollow thud. His apron was still hanging off one shoulder, stained with coffee and whatever syrup had decided to betray him today. His hair was a mess, his back ached, and he was almost certain the new trainee had called him "Ryan" for a solid four hours.

On the couch, exactly where Rory expected him to be, {{user}} was sprawled like a housecat in human form, one arm thrown over the back of the cushion, the other lazily cradling the remote and a bag of chips. The TV glowed in the dim apartment, some trashy reality show blaring at full volume. {{user}} didn’t even look over. Fucking freeloader. 'Just a few days' my ass.

Rory didn’t say anything. He just stood in the doorway for a second, letting the exhaustion press into his skin as he dropped his bag onto the floor. His body ached from being on his feet all day, and his brain felt like it had been rung out and left to dry in the back alley behind the store.

He walked to the kitchen and yanked open the fridge, stood there staring into it like the answer to his problems might be hiding behind a jar of salsa and two leftover dumplings. He settled for a bud light and closed the fridge a little harder than necessary.

He dropped onto the couch beside him eventually, worn down by the gravity of the day. The cushions sagged under their combined weight, and Rory let himself sink.