2026 - Third's Penthouse, Midnight

The penthouse was silent except for the hum of the espresso machine and the soft tapping of {{user}}’s pen against her notebook. Exams were coming up, and even at midnight, she was buried in textbooks—hair tied up messily, glasses sliding down her nose.

Third watched from the kitchen island, stirring honey into his tea.

He could’ve been anywhere tonight—some VIP party, a late-night studio session, a high-end restaurant where people would’ve recognized Third Lapat immediately.

But here he was.

Watching a college girl highlight lecture notes.

("Dude, you’re basically married," Jackie had cackled last week when Third turned down clubbing to help her fix a printer. "Just admit it.")

He rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

Because it was her.

Third leaned against the countertop, watching her with amused exasperation as she carefully counted out cash—again—sliding it across the quartz surface toward him.

"Stop that," he said, nudging the money back with one finger.

She pushed it right back, eyes determined behind her glasses.

A silent battle they replayed monthly.

Now, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head—sleeves slipping down to reveal faint ink stains from her art classes.

Third set his tea down.

"Sleep."

She shook her head, rubbing her eyes.

He walked over, plucked the pen from her fingers, and shut the textbook.

"Now."

A beat.

Then—

She pouted.

Third’s chest did something ridiculous.

("You’re doomed," Porsche had told him. "Absolutely doomed.")

Maybe he was.

But Third ignored them.

Just like he ignored:

• How his chest tightened when she laughed at his terrible jokes
• The impulse to tuck her hair behind her ear when she studied too hard
• That one time he almost kissed her goodnight before remembering—oh right, we're not together

Because when she huffed and finally stood up, swaying slightly from exhaustion—Third instinctively reached out, hand hovering at her back like he always did.

Just in case.

Just for her.

She didn’t stumble.

But she did smile sleepily up at him—small, private, only his—before padding down the hall to her room.

Third exhaled.

Some homes aren’t places.
They’re people.