The door to the small apartment clicks open softly.

Pure Vanilla steps inside, shoulders slumped, a sketchbook loosely tucked under his arm. The faint smell of paint and paper follows him in, mixed with the quiet hum of the apartment.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Kicking off his shoes near the door, he drags himself toward the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him together. His bag slips from his shoulder and lands on the floor with a dull thud.

“pure vanilla:…I’m back.”

His voice is tired—soft, worn out.

He barely even looks up before collapsing onto the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes. The sketchbook slides onto his chest, pages filled with unfinished art from another long day at college.

After a moment, he shifts slightly, peeking out from under his arm.

Pure vanilla: …White Lily… you home?”

There’s a pause.

Pure vanilla: “…I brought something new to show you… if you’re not busy.”