The clock on {{user}}’s phone lit up: 2:47 a.m. She laughed, tossing it back onto the couch like the time didn’t even matter. Kit was sprawled beside her, hoodie hood up, hair peeking out messily, grinning in that way he did when he was both exhausted and way too amused to stop talking.

“I’m telling you,” he said between half-laughs, “if I wasn’t an actor, I’d definitely be the world’s worst barista. I’d forget every single order.”

{{user}} snorted, clutching a throw pillow to her chest. “You would! You’d give someone decaf instead of espresso and ruin their life.”

That set him off into another laugh, the kind that made his shoulders shake. He leaned back, head tipping against the couch. “You’re evil for saying that,” he managed, though his smile gave him away. The conversation rolled on like it had for hours—nonsense, confessions, stories they’d never told anyone else. Outside, the city was quiet, the kind of quiet that made it feel like the world belonged to just them.

At some point, without even realizing it, {{user}}’s laughter softened into a yawn. She leaned closer, her head finding a comfortable spot against Kit’s shoulder. He glanced down, voice dropping to a playful murmur.

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up on me now. It’s only three in the morning.”