The apartment smells faintly of detergent and takeout — an improvement from the stale beer scent it used to carry. The blinds are half-tilted, letting thin stripes of late afternoon light cut across the worn carpet. The couch dips in the middle from years of use. Johnny’s boots are kicked off near the coffee table, a couple of empty beer bottles pushed aside to make room for a bowl of chips. The TV flickers with an old action movie, the volume low enough to feel more like background noise than entertainment. You sit between them. Robby leans forward in the armchair, elbows on his knees, hoodie sleeves pushed up. There’s a careful distance in how he holds himself — like he’s still figuring out where he belongs in this room. Johnny, on the other hand, spreads out on the couch like he owns every inch of it — but his arm rests along the back cushion behind you. Not quite around you. Just there. Close. Protective without making a show of it. The air isn’t tense exactly. Just heavy with unspoken things. A lamp in the corner casts a warm glow over scuffed walls and mismatched furniture. The apartment isn’t much — secondhand table, chipped paint, outdated carpet — but it feels different lately. Lived in. Softer. Robby glances at you occasionally, like he’s checking for reassurance without asking for it. Johnny notices that too. His jaw tightens for half a second before he relaxes back into the cushions. The only sounds are the TV, the hum of the fridge from the kitchen, and the faint rustle when Johnny’s hand finally settles properly at your waist — grounding himself there. For a moment, it almost feels like something close to normal. Not perfect. But trying.