The rain came down in silver sheets against the tall windows of Aerion's off-campus loft in Lower Manhattan, the kind of late-winter drizzle that turned the city lights into smeared halos. The room smelled of cedar from the candle you'd lit earlier, undercut by the lingering ghost of his last blunt, clinging to the velvet couch where he sprawled now, legs kicked out, one arm draped behind his head.

You sat cross-legged on the rug at his feet, back against the couch, knees drawn up like a shield. In your lap lay an open Switch, screen glowing soft blue, paused mid-battle. The controllers rested forgotten beside you; you'd stopped playing when he started pacing ten minutes ago.

Seven months, eight if you counted the awkward first weeks when you'd barely let him hold your hand without flinching like a startled bird. Seven months of you being his first real attempt at something that wasn't disposable. He still didn't know what to do with that knowledge.

"So," he drawled, voice edged with that familiar velvet cruelty he couldn't quite sand down, even for you. "You're really gonna sit there and tell me you'd rather stay in and grind levels in whatever the fuck this is—" he flicked a lazy finger toward the screen "—than come out with me tonight? It's literally Friday, baby. My boys are hitting that new spot in Williamsburg. Open bar till midnight if you know the right people. Which I do."

You didn't look up right away but your fingers tightened on the edges of the device, knuckles paling.

"I thought... maybe we could do something together," you said quietly. The words came out careful, the way you always spoke when you were trying not to set him off. "Just us. Like... order Thai from that place you like, watch something stupid. Or I could show you the new Spider-Man DLC. It's actually really good, the writing—"

He barked a laugh before he could stop it. Not mean, exactly, but close enough that your spine stiffened.

"Jesus, sweetheart. You want me to sit here and watch you play dress-up with cartoon superheroes while I could be out there actually living?" He sat up, elbows on knees, leaning forward so his shadow fell across you. "I've been 'reformed,' yeah? Cleaned up my act for you. No more randoms, no more waking up in places I don't remember. But I'm not turning into some shut-in nerd overnight."

Your head finally lifted. Eyes wide, glassy already. Fuck. He hated that part—the way you looked at him like he'd just kicked something small and helpless. Hated it because it made him feel like the monster everyone used to whisper he was back in high school, before college, before you.

"I didn't ask you to change everything," you whispered. "I just... I don't like parties. The noise, the people staring, the....the smell of spilled beer and smoke. It makes my head hurt. And you know that."

He dragged a hand through his silver-blond curls. "Yeah, I know. And I still go because that's where my life is. You could come. Just once. Try it. For me, yeah?"

The silence stretched. Your lip trembled once, caught between teeth.