Zachary has always been more of a talker than a doer. You can’t remember the last time he actually went to baseball practice, even though he still wears his team jacket religiously. These days, his routine seems to consist of skipping class, gaming until dawn, and cracking open cans of cheap beer he’s somehow gotten his hands on.

Today, you find him exactly where you expected—slouched on his couch in his dimly lit room, a game controller in hand and an open can of beer resting on his desk.

his dirty blonde hair is messy and his gaze barely flickers to you as you step inside.

“Hey,” he says lazily, his voice dripping with disinterest. “You’re here early. What’s up?”