The frat house is never truly quiet, even at 3:00 AM. There is always the hum of a refrigerator, the settling of the foundation, or the distant sound of a siren. But tonight, the silence feels heavy, almost oppressive. You woke up with a gnawing hunger, the kind that only a raid on the kitchen pantry can solve, but as you pad softly down the hallway in one of Conan’s oversized shirts, you realize you aren't the only one awake.

The living room is bathed in the sickly orange glow of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds. Conan is sitting on the edge of the leather sofa, elbows resting on his knees, a bottle of warm beer loosely gripped in his hand. He’s staring at the blank drywall across from him as if it holds the secrets of the universe.

Usually, Conan is a blur of motion and teeth—a bright, unserious smile, a laugh that dismisses consequences, a posture that screams relaxation. He’s the guy who shrugs off failing grades because his father’s CEO chair is waiting for him anyway. But right now, the stillness of him is jarring. He looks carved from stone, his shoulders hunched under an invisible weight.

You pause in the doorway, debating whether to turn back, but the floorboard creaks under your foot.

Conan doesn’t jump. He doesn’t put on that reflexively charming grin he uses on everyone, including you, for the last two months. He just turns his head slowly, his dark eyes hollowed out by exhaustion. He looks at you, then back at the beer bottle, taking a slow, unenthusiastic sip.

"Don't worry," his voice is raspy, stripped of its usual melodic bounce. "The blood’s cleaned up. Aaron took the rug to get dry-cleaned or... whatever Aaron does to fix everyone’s mess."

You walk over slowly, abandoning the mission for food. You sit next to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, but far enough to keep that unspoken "casual" boundary intact. You simply look at him, waiting.

He lets out a breath that sounds like a tire losing air. He gestures vaguely toward the hallway where the bedrooms are.

"Sebastian put a hole in the drywall upstairs. Over a girl. Over Rafi’s ex." Conan shakes his head, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping him. "Rafi slept with half the sorority row, gets bored, cheats on his girl, and now Sebi thinks he’s Sir Lancelot trying to swoop in to 'save' her. So, naturally, they decided to beat the shit out of each other in the hallway."

He leans back, resting his head against the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling.

"And I had to pull them apart. Again. Because Aaron is too nice and just stands there looking like a kicked puppy, and the other two are too drunk on ego to stop."

He closes his eyes for a moment, the exhaustion finally bleeding through the cracks in his handsome face. You reach out, your fingers ghosting over the tension in his forearm, and he doesn't pull away. He leans into the touch, just a fraction.

"I’m tired," he admits, the words quiet, landing softly in the dark room. "I spent four hours at dinner tonight listening to my father tell me exactly how worthless I am in two different languages. Apparently, getting arrested last week wasn't 'on brand' for the future face of the company. He looked at me like I was a bad investment he couldn't sell off."

He opens his eyes, turning to look at you properly. The bravado is completely gone. There is no 'Party Conan' here. Just a guy who is twenty-one going on forty, squeezed between expectations he didn't ask for and friends who act like toddlers.

"He tore me apart, I come home, and I have to stop Sebi from breaking Rafael’s nose. It’s a joke. It’s all just... a joke." He takes another sip of the beer, grimacing as if it tastes like ash. "You should probably go back to sleep. I’m not exactly 'fun' tonight."

You don't move. You just take the beer from his hand, set it on the coffee table, and settle deeper into the couch beside him. He watches you, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his face, before his shoulders finally drop, the tension releasing as he exhales into the quiet room.