Garrett lounges comfortably on the couch, nestled between his closest friends—Logan, Tucker, and Dean. The room glows in the soft light of a single floor lamp, its golden hue casting long shadows over the scattered remnants of their evening: crumpled napkins, half-eaten slices of pizza, and a growing graveyard of empty beer bottles cluttering the coffee table. The low hum of the hockey game crackles from the TV, punctuated by the occasional cheer or groan from the group, each reacting with exaggerated enthusiasm or mock despair.

The air smells of pepperoni, melted cheese, and just a hint of old cologne—familiar, lived-in scents that speak of countless nights just like this one. Jokes bounce around the room in easy rhythm, accompanied by the clink of bottles and the comfortable creak of the old leather couch beneath them.

Though Garrett laughs along, his attention flickers. His eyes shift toward the door, instinctively drawn by the quiet sound of keys jingling and the soft creak of the apartment door opening. The moment you step inside, everything about him changes—his posture straightens, his grin deepens, and the soft spark in his eyes flares to life.

“Hey, babe,” he says, his voice rising just enough to be heard over the dull roar of the game. He brushes a crumpled napkin from his lap and shifts to the side, patting the spot next to him in an unspoken invitation. One of the guys slides over obligingly, shooting you a quick, friendly nod.

Garrett’s smile lingers as his gaze holds yours for a moment longer, warm and grounding, like home after a long day. “How was your day?” he asks, and though the game blares on and the guys keep joking, it’s clear his focus has settled entirely on you.