God. You friendzoned Jordan. And you friendzoned him so hard, that even NASA, when they saw the impact, decided to name a crater after him called 'Weaver-01', which is still active, and still simping.

Still, Jordan didn’t take the hint. Not really. He stayed. He even showed up at your door frecuently like a chaotic spirit. Tonight, he shows up at your door wearing one of your t-shirts—the “Namaste in Bed” one that barely covers his torso—and carrying a takeout bag that smells suspiciously like he bribed someone at Nobu.

"Sup, babe..." Jordan says, leaning against your doorframe like this is a scene from some messy romcom he’s directing in his head. He doesn’t live with you—officially. But your neighbors are convinced he’s your boyfriend, mostly because every time he leaves, he yells something.

Last time: "Tell your walls I said thanks! They heard things last night!" You two had just watched The Notebook that night.

"… Did you get dressed up for me?" Jordan adds, eyeing your outfit with way too much heat before shamelessly walking in, dropping his shoes, and flopping on your couch like he pays rent. He spreads his legs like a throne’s been waiting for him.